


Merlin, the adventures continue...

by Medrawd



Series: Merlin, the adventures continue... [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:25:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5081098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medrawd/pseuds/Medrawd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tweaking the last episode of Merlin just a bit, this story continues right after that last episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

With a jolt Merlin sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, a piercing scream still on his lips. Pulse racing, heart beating erratically in his chest, his breath came in ragged gulps. Slowly the room came into focus, the last rays of the setting sun playing with the swirling dust particles.

“Merlin, are you alright?” The door flew open and a tired-looking Gaius half-ran into Merlin’s tiny room. “I heard you scream. You’re awake!”

Merlin nodded, still dazed from his dream. “Yes,” he said absent-minded, “yes, just a bad dream. What time is it?”

Gaius at first said nothing, then: “Tell me about your dream.”

“It was terrible Gaius, absolutely terrible. I was Emrys and suddenly a dragon whizzed past, an enormous dragon encased in sharp-edged metal armour and the noise... it was... it was... and it was bellowing black smoke from behind and its eyes were ablaze and I just stood there and then it was gone and another one at terrible speed came thundering by and I stood there, by the Lake of Avalon, standing and walking and searching but everything had changed and the forests were gone and the road was all black with white stripes and then I saw Mordred, sword dripping with blood and laughing and Arthur lying in a boat and he was dead and--- Arthur, where is Arthur, is he alright?” Panic now crept in Merlin’s voice and he grabbed Gaius’ sleeve, fear in his eyes. “Please tell me he is alright!”

“Yes Merlin, Arthur is perfectly fine.”

For a moment relief washed over Merlin’s face. “And Gwaine, is he alright too?”

“Yes Merlin, Gwaine is alright and so are Percival and Leon and Gwen.”

Gaius wanted to say more, but he hesitated. “Merlin,” he said at last, “there is more. You have been asleep for over a week. I have tried everything to wake you, but the magic is unfamiliar to me and it was too strong. It was very old magic, nothing I’ve ever seen, but I could feel it and---“

“A week, over a week? I have been asleep for over a week?”

“Yes, so you will be well rested by now,”  said Arthur as he walked into the room.

“Arthur!” Merlin exclaimed.

“And surely you must be full of energy. So you can start by polishing my armour and cleaning my boots. And my shirts needs washing.” A bundle of red and white linen shirts hit Merlin square in his face.

“Eeuww, have you been sleeping in the stables in these?”

“No, I couldn’t afford to sleep, as I had to do your chores as well. You were the one sleeping, remember?”

Arthur walked to the door. Then he turned around, looked at Merlin and said: “I’m glad you’re back Merlin, I really am.” Before Merlin could respond, Arthur was gone.

I had better not tell him, Gaius thought, that Arthur came here every day, moistening Merlin’s lips and trying to get him to drink. “Not a word of this to anyone,” had Arthur commanded, “not one word!”

The door was thrown open and Gwaine, Percival and Leon came bursting in, all three hugging Merlin at the same time, all but suffocating him. “You’re back!” they yelled and cheered and finally gave Merlin some air. Then they left as noisily as they came.

“I will leave you now,” said Gaius, “let you rest a while.”

“What, do you actually want me to go to sleep?” Merlin answered jokingly.

 

Merlin did not sleep, but lay staring at the ceiling, his mind in turmoil trying to figure out what had happened. His dreams had been so vivid, so real, he really couldn’t tell what was real and what was not anymore. Not so long ago he has lost his magic, thanks to Morgana, but that surely must have been real. He still felt the pain, the hopelessness, the fear. Could Morgana be responsible for this too? And Mordred, surely he had nothing to do with all of this? He was a Knight of Camelot, a friend. Merlin lit a candle and started reading, there must be an explanation in his spell books. Late in the evening, when everything was dark, he slipped out of Camelot and summoned the Great Dragon.

 

“I  need you to tell me,” Merlin said, “I was asleep for over a week and even Gaius doesn’t know what caused it. I’ve read countless books on magic and there never was any mention of a sleeping spell this powerful. And I had this dream of Mordred laughing and Arthur being dead in a future I can’t understand.”

“Do we not all dream,” said Kilgharrah unperturbed, “just as I did until you summoned me.”

“Do you know what caused it, who caused it. Could it have been Morgana?”

“So many questions... Hmmm, yes, the witch has great power, she could very well behind this. And I remember, long ago, before the gods of the old religion, there were the gods that came before them, long forgotten now by most. Perhaps someone has awakened some of them. I have heard of an ancient god of sleep and dreams, Caer Ibormeith, who could induce such dreams. Unfortunately, those dreams had the tendency to usually come true.”

“But it is my destiny to protect Arthur,” Merlin said desperately, “he cannot die in my arms, he cannot die because a dream said so.”

“There are many roads that lead to ones destiny,” Kilgharrah answered, “but to that one destiny all roads invariably lead. Sometimes the road is short, sometimes the road is long. It is written that it is Arthurs destiny to die young warlock, as it is your destiny to protect him and there is nothing I can do to change that. Only you can decide which road to take and the road you have chosen is a precarious one.”

“Why, I am doing everything in my power to protect Arthur.”

“If that is so, then why let you that druid boy live. You should have killed him when you had the chance.”

“Mordred, his name is Mordred.”

“That druid boy will be Arthurs downfall, heed my words.”

“Mordred would lay down his life for Arthur.”

“And take his life.”

 

That evening there was a great feast in the Great Hall of Camelot. Meat and mead in abundance and all the Knights of Camelot were laughing and talking and bragging. Among the guests were the kings of Mercia en Caerleon and their spouses and a boisterous knight with a huge bushy beard, clad entirely in green.

Merlin stood in the corner of the hall, looked at Arthur and a tear trickled down his face.


	2. While you here do snoring lie…

The cave smelled of damp earth and mouldy leaves. A few rays of sunlight tried to penetrate the thick foliage which obscured the entrance. No sound was heard but the scuttling of bugs and the distant hollow drip of water. Something stirred in a far corner and a faint groaning could be heard, just for a second and then silence again. Another groan, louder this time, and a sigh.

Exhausted she lay there, barely alive. Her face deathly pale, colourless her cracked lips, her breathing a mere whisper. The spell had taken more than she had to give, all her strength was gone after casting that powerful spell to kill Merlin once and for all. Deep in her mind Morgana knew she was somehow alive, clinging to her last shred of strength, drifting in and out of consciousness.

“I am alive,” she thought, “and Merlin will be dead by now.” A mere hint of a cruel smile came to her lips. “And no cure exists.”

Gnarled fingers, skin stretched taunt over tiny bones, dribbled some water between Morgana’s parched lips and then it withdrew back in the shadows. Greedily she drank the cool water and slowly her mind descended into darkness once more.

 

_A few weeks earlier_

Slowly Morgana and her three companions rode through the dense forest, careful not to trip the horses on the precariously jutting roots and slippery moss. It was midday and not a cloud in the sky, but under the thick canopy of the trees it was pleasantly cool. Morgana was in a foul mood and kept bawling at the soldiers. Respectfully they kept their distance, it was dangerous to be around Morgana in a bad mood, you never knew what might happen. She had killed soldiers for less. A lot less.

“The fool,” Morgana thought, “the imbecile. I gave him the chance to take revenge on Arthur and he refused. He just stood there with those puppy dog eyes and he said no. The fool!”

It seemed such a good idea, getting Mordred on her side, a druid and a sorcerer to help her kill both Arthur and Merlin. “And Mordred surely must hate Arthur, after he had his girlfriend Kara hanged, but no, he had to ‘respectfully decline the generous offer’ and walk away”.

Morgana’s nostrils flared, a dangerous gleam came into her eyes. “The fool!,” she screamed and unconsciously she unleashed her destructive magic. A tree split in two, crashing dangerously close to the terrified soldiers. Their horses were prancing with fear, eyes rolling, all but bolting away.

“So you want to kill Emrys.”

“Who said that,” came Morgana’s acrid voice. “Soldiers, get the...” She fell silent, the soldiers had vanished into thin air. “Where did... who are you, show yourself!”

“I am here, right before your eyes. Are you so blinded by hate that you cannot see?”

It was then that Morgana saw the gray-blue fog obscuring most of the forest, making all the trees like ghoulish trunks floating in the air, the sun was no longer to be seen, the sky an eerily blue.

And then Morgana spotted her, an old crone, almost indistinguisable from the tree she was sitting against. Dirty and matted hair with twigs and leaves in it, a brown and wrinkled skin and clad in a torn and soiled dress of a brownish-green colour matching the moss on the tree trunk.

“So you want to kill Emrys,” she repeated.

“Who are you and how do you know I want to kill him,” she said.

“So you do want to kill him,” the creature chuckled.

“ _Overswing_!” Morgana yelled, but the hurling spell had no effect. Instead, the crone just cackled.

“Do you really think your puny magic can hurt me? Now get off your horse, go sit here, listen and keep quiet!“

Morgana did as she was told.

“Now, you want to get rid of that meddlesome sorcerer, get rid of Arthur and rule over Camelot, is it not? I know, Morgana, I know more than you can possibly comprehend. As for who I am, I am called Macha and I am the last one of my kind. Before the Great Purge, before the gods of the Old Religion, there was an even older religion, long forgotten now. There were many of us, worshipped throughout the lands far and wide and now all is gone, gone...”

“And you want to help me,” Morgana said with a contemptuous voice.

“I said keep quiet!” and the words hit Morgana like a whip. “Yes, I want you to achieve your goal, and with it, my own. The Pendragons and all those before them killed all the magic, killed hundreds, thousands of innocent people and...”

“Why don’t you do...” Morgana said, and suddenly found her tongue fused to her palate, unable to utter another sound.

“Keep quiet I said!” thundered the crone, “You will get your voice back when I am finished. As I said, I have no love for the Pendragons, but I am powerless outside my own domain, I can do nothing here. But you can, Morgana, you can and will help me. Magic must be brought back to this land, druids must come back and dragons and for that to happen the Pendragon dynasty must be eliminated, but not without sacrifices. Emrys must die, although that gives me great pain, for he is a most powerful sorcerer, but without him Arthur is nothing. With Emrys gone, the prophesy will finally come to pass and Arthur will die and magic will rule this land once more. You will rule this land”

For a moment her eyes flickered golden. “I will give you a spell to kill Emrys. A spell from ancient times, a spell so old no books will mention it, a spell so old and powerful no sorcerer will be able to counteract it. But it comes with a price, a hefty price. You will be in my debt and you will pay that debt, so consider carefully how you answer. Do you still want the spell, yes or no.”

“Yes,” croaked Morgana greedy.

“Very well,” she whispered and laid her bony hand on Morgana’s forehead. A blinding light, a jolt and Morgana sat on a bolting horse, trying to calm it down. Her three soldiers rode to her and asked if she was alright.

“Yes,” she snapped and slowly her horse recovered. “Yes,” she whispered. She felt strange, something had happened, but she didn’t know what. There was something in her mind, lurking unseen in a forgotten corner.

“We will ride to Camelot,” and without another word she urged her horse forwards, followed by the stupefied soldiers.

 

“I knew you would come here,” whispered Morgana to herself. For a few days now she had camped in the woods near Camelot, in a place where Merlin regularly came to gather herbs. Somehow Morgana came to realize there was a very powerful spell implanted in her head, a spell to get rid of Merlin. She saw Merlin bending down, selecting and picking the herbs Gaius had asked for. She closed her eyes, trying to calm her breathing and concentrated. Words formed in her head, her body tingled. She felt the magic flowing through her veins and then an enormous discharge of raw magical power. She saw Merlin staggering as if hit by a sudden gust of wind. He shook his head and looked around, wondering where that had come from. Not seeing anything, he picked up the basket with herbs and walked back to Camelot. Morgana could just see him yawning and she smiled viciously.

“Sleep well, my dear Merlin, and pleasant dreams,” she whispered cruelly, “You know, before nightfall you will be asleep and nothing can wake you up. Nothing. And to make your death a most agonizing one, I have implanted a little dream in your head. You will see Arthur getting killed and no matter how hard you try, he will die in your arms and you will die a little also. And you will relive that dream over and over again until your brain cannot take it anymore and then you will die. It will take only a few weeks, but it will be a few horrendous weeks. So, my dear, dear Merlin, sleep well.”

Filled with an enormous satisfaction Morgana tried to stand up, but somehow she couldn’t. Her limbs suddenly felt so very heavy and she fell down, unable to stand up. She felt so very tired, all her energy was draining away.

“I am so cold, so cold.” She tried to speak, but the words did not come. “So cold, so tired...” It felt like a mountain had fallen on her and she couldn’t breathe. “So tired...” Clouds were spinning in the sky and Morgana drifted away, into the black hole of unconsciousness. Then she felt nothing and her world went black.


	3. To thy grim tool now take heed, sir!

“And I tell you,” Gwaine boasted and draining his mug of ale in one gulp, “That guy, he never knew what hit him!”  
Great laughter erupted, Sir Leon almost choking trying to laugh and drink at the same time. “That was a wager never to be forgotten.” Another burst of thunderous and raucous laughter. Arthur sat on his throne and smiled. He took a huge mouthful of a herb-encrusted capon and looked around, feeling very satisfied. The ties of friendship with both the rulers of Mercia and Caerleon were strengthened once more, treaties signed, words of trust and friendship given. Curiously he looked at Sir Vert of Sinople, a wandering knight who came to Camelot a few days ago, asking for lodgings so he could rest himself and his horse before continuing on his journey. All clad in green he was, even his eyes were the colour of emerald.  
One seat however, was empty. Mordred was still missing. He needed to get away, he said, trying to clear his head. It has been a hard time for him, Arthur knew that all too well, but he had no choice giving the order to hang his friend Kara. I’ve tried to reason with him, he thought, but he was so angry, so frustrated. I’m sure in due time he’ll see reason. After all, trying to assassinate the king of Camelot is punishable by death, all personal feelings must be set aside. He was, no, he is, a loyal and trusted Knight of Camelot, he will come back. There were rumours of course, a swineherd claimed to have seen him with a woman: “an’ ravenblack ‘air she ‘ad, an’ a dress like one of them fancy rich wimmin fr’m the cas’l”. It could have been Morgana, but Arthur had dismissed that idea. It could have been anybody. Mordred would never, ever team up with Morgana and betray Camelot.

“So Sir Knight,” the Green Knight bellowed in Gwaine’s ear, “I gather you are not averse to a wager now and then.”  
“No Sir, I am not,” he shouted back and raised his goblet.  
“In that case, Sir Knight, may I be so bold as to propose a little wager.”  
“By all means, Sir, by all means.”  
“But first I must have your solemn oath as a knight of Camelot and as a gentleman...”  
“Gentleman? Him? Gwaine a gentleman?” Both Percival and Leon burst out laughing, tears streaming down their faces, their fists thumping on the table, all but upsetting some jugs of ale.  
“By the gods, guys, let the man speak,” Gwaine said. “Please Sir Knight, pray continue.”  
“As I said, first I must have your solemn oath you will honour our little agreement.”  
“I Sir, I am a Knight of Camelot, a Knight of the Round Table. When I give you my word, I will keep my word, no matter what. So yes Sir Knight, you have my solemn oath! Needless to say Sir Knight, you will undoubtedly honour our arrangement also.”  
“Splendid, splendid! Of course will I honour our agreement. Let us shake hands Sir Gwaine, on our little wager.”  
The two knights firmly clasped each other’s forearms.  
“And now for the wager, Sir Knight, what is it you had in mind.”  
“O, it is quite simple really. You will inflict on me some bodily harm and in turn I will inflict you with the same. I must, however, insist on a few conditions. I get to choose and you must be the one to first inflict the chosen harm on me. Are we in agreement, Sir Gwaine?”  
What harm can come to me, Gwaine thought, a black eye perhaps, a bruised rib or two, I’ve had worse. “Agreed, Sir Knight, I do agree. Choose!”  
“Very well, Sir, I have here a sword of excellent craftsmanship and all I ask of you is to chop my head off.”   
Some could be heard laughing and snickering, others were just shaking their heads. Chop his head off? It looks like he’s lost his head already! Gwaine stood dumbfounded, not quite knowing how to react. “Very well,” he said at last, “very well. Please give me the sword.”

Gwaine took the heavy broadsword in his hands and tested its balance. It was beautifully made and razor-sharp. Arthur looked at him as if trying to say “no killing of guests here in Camelot”. Gwaine gave Arthur a reassuring smile.   
“You’re not really going to chop his head off?” Percival whispered a little anxious.  
“Of course not,” Gwaine whispered back, “I’ll just scare him a little, and maybe give him a bit of a haircut. Teach him a lesson not to fool around with knights of Camelot or make outrageous wagers.”  
The Green Knight was on his knees now, quite unperturbed and lowered his head on a stool. The Great Hall fell silent, even the dogs were quiet.  
Slowly Gwaine came closer and closer. He lifted the sword high above his head and held it there, a roguish smile on his lips.  
“Come on Sir Knight, I haven’t got all night.”  
Gwaine took a deep breath and with great speed he swung the sword down, narrowly missing the Green Knight’s head. A few hairs could be seen swirling down. A collective sigh was heard through the Great Hall, the tension broke.  
“Excellent! Truly magnificent, Sir Knight, very good. Very good indeed! Verily a masterly hew.” The Green Knight stood up and beamed at Gwaine. “Razor-sharp this sword is, don’t you agree? It clave with one mighty stroke my head clean from my shoulders.”  
“Yes,” said Gwaine a bit taken aback, but he decided to play along. “Yes, it did, didn’t it,” and looked involuntarily at the blade, a lopsided grin on his face. It was clean, not a drop of blood could be seen.  
“I didn’t feel a thing, you truly are a knight of great skill and renown.”  
“A toast,” shouted Arthur, raising his goblet, “a toast to our brave and gracious guest, Sir Vert of Sinople!”  
“To our guest!”  
“And a toast to Sir Gwaine, for displaying true gallantry.”  
“Sir Gwaine!”  
“And now,” the Green Knight said, putting down his cup, “Now Sir Knight, you did swear, upon your honour as a Knight of Camelot, for you to have inflicted upon yourself the same as you have inflicted upon me. I hold you to that promise Sir Knight. I hold you to that solemn oath. This sword that clave my neck will one day cleave yours.”  
“I did so swear, “ Gwaine answered formally, “But...” That roguish smile again came to his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, “But... if I’m not mistaken, your head is still on your shoulders, my good Sir, and speech still issues from your lips.”  
“It may be but a week, a year and a day or three-score years from now, I will keep you to your word Sir Knight,” and with those words he lifted his head from his shoulders. The Hall fell silent. Retching could be heard, and vomiting. A serving girl fainted, crockery shattering on the flagstones. Others started crying, Guinevere turning deathly pale, Arthur clutching the armrests of his throne until his knuckles turned white. The knights just stood there, staggered and bewildered, unable to move.  
“A very beautiful shade of green your visage is turning into, Sir Percival,” the Green Knight said mockingly, “very beautiful indeed. I do so appreciate a nice shade of green.”  
“What foul and black magic is this,” Merlin thought, more fascinated than afraid, “it surely must come from knowledge long hidden and carefully kept secret. I’ve never seen this in my life.” He slinked behind Arthur’s throne, ready to stealthily cast a spell should the need arise.  
“Calm, we must remain calm,” Arthur thought, “I must not show fear.” He took a deep breath and summoning all his strength he proclaimed: “Fear not, this is nothing but a trick, an illusion. You had your fun, Sir Knight, now come and sit down so we can all have a laugh.”  
But the Green Knight did not sit down and his head, now securely lodged under his arm, said: “One day Sir Knight, one day I will hold you to your oath.” With these words he turned on his heels and walked away. In the Great Hall pandemonium broke loose.

“It was a trick, nothing but a cheap trick from an insignificant conjurer, a trick to frighten women and children,” shouted Gwaine, laughing just a little too loud.  
“Well, he was good, he even frightened me for a moment,” came Sir Percival.  
“And green is your natural colour, come on Percival, you were terrified, admit it.”  
“I was not!”  
“Yes, you were.” Gwaine put his arm around Percival’s chest and squeezed him hard, hiding his own fear.  
“I still wonder how he did it.”  
“Come on Merlin,” said Arthur, “don’t be such a girl, don’t stand there cowering behind the throne. My goblet is empty. Merlin... MERLIN...! I know how simple folk like you are easily impressed with the simplest of parlour-tricks and...”  
“Yes, Sire,” Merlin said and started to fill Arthur’s goblet. “Easily impressed, that’s me. I was also very easily impressed by your ability to so quickly turn as white as a sheet. A mere trick, I am sure...”.  
But Merlin knew it was no trick, he had felt the magic when the Green Knight lifted his head from his shoulders.  
“I did not turn white,” he heard Arthur say, “It was a mere trick of light, nothing more.”   
“Like your shaking hand is a trick of light too.”  
“Merlin...”

The next day Arthur sent out soldiers to every corner of Camelot to find Sir Vert, the Green Knight, but when the soldiers returned, they all had the same message: no one had seen the Green Knight and no one has ever heard of him.


	4. What shall I do? say what? what shall I do?

He felt angry and frustrated, sad and confused. Mordred had been riding aimlessly for days on end now. Blinded by grief and anger, all he wanted to do was to vent his anger on anything or anyone crossing his path. He could barely contain his druidic powers, barely contain the urge to unleash every ounce of magic he had in him. Arthur had killed Kara, his beloved Kara. Hanged her like a common criminal and for what... But deep in his heart he knew the reason: she had tried to kill Arthur, tried to kill the King of Camelot. Fighting back hot tears he thought: “no, he could have saved her, he could have shown some clemency. She was only a girl, nothing more.” His horse slowed, the track was getting more and more impassable.   
“Mordred...,” he heard, “Mordred...” The sound was like a whisper on the wind, a faint rustling of leaves. He looked around, but saw no one. “Show yourself,” he demanded. Nothing.  
“Come Mordred, come to me...,” the ethereal voice whispered, ”Come...”  
Mordred rode on, ignoring the voice. For a moment he had thought it was Kara calling him, he did see her in his mind, but it could not be, it did not sound like her voice. “I’m imagining things,” he said to himself, irritated. Then suddenly he found himself on a clear track and there in the distance loomed a dark and forbidding castle. “Come to me, come to me Mordred...”   
He followed the road to the castle and was greeted by the outer gatehouse by two unsmiling guards who ushered him through the gate and into the outer court. He crossed the drawbridge and entered an almost empty courtyard.  
“Follow me,” another guard said. Leaving his horse in the courtyard, he followed the guard into the Great Hall of the castle. Torches were burning and fires were blazing in the braziers, but they gave off no heat, the cold seemed to suck all the warmth from his body. A few guards in black and unyielding armour lined the walls, at the far end of the hall loomed a throne. “Hello Mordred, I knew you would come to me.” On that throne sat Morgana.

“Do you like it?” she said and her hand glided over the supple black leather trousers and the dull black armour. It was beautiful, he had to admit that, a finely crafted mail shirt of small black rings riveted intricately together, a padded black tunic, a heavy black cloak with a silver clasp. “It really brings out the colour of your eyes,” she said, her voice dripping with honey. “Come, join me and together we can defeat Arthur and claim Camelot as rightfully ours. Just remember what Arthur has done to you. He murdered your friend, didn’t he? Cold and heartless, that’s Arthur for you. And does he recognise your powers? No, he would kill you where you stand just for being what you are, killing you for your abilities. He is no better than Uther and his relentless persecution of druids and witches and warlocks.” Morgana’s voice was dripping with venom now, yet mesmerizing at the same time, luring Mordred deeper and deeper into her web. “You are forced to live your life in hiding, hiding your powers, hiding your true self, always living in fear of being discovered. And you know Arthur will kill you, kill all druids and all those who practice magic. Is that what you want? No, Mordred, join me and you can have all the power you want and more.” She was whispering now, whispering very seductively. Her eyes were cold, yet burning with hatred.  
Mordred just sat there, gazing longingly at the beautiful armour, stroking it, wanting to shed his red cloak with its golden dragon, his bright mail shirt. His mind was in turmoil, torn between love and hate, between loyalty and treachery.  
“I am a Knight of Camelot,” he thought, “Arthur trusts me. The knights trust me. Arthur killed Kara. Arthur loathes magic, it is said Uther his father died of magic gone wrong, of evil magic. Magic is evil. I practice magic. Merlin uses magic. Magic is good. Arthur will kill me if he knew my true self, but Arthur can change. Perhaps one day magic will be allowed, will be embraced even and can I come out of the closet and live my life, could Merlin live his live and need we no longer live in fear and hiding.”  
“Well my dear Mordred, have you made a decision?” Honey again, her voice, honey and wormwood.  
“No,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, “No, I will not join forces with you. I will not become like you. I know Arthur killed Kara and I know he will kill me, but I must have faith that he can change, that Camelot can change. I am a Knight of Camelot, I must uphold my honour, so I must respectfully decline your offer.”  
With these rather formal words he turned on his heels and walked away, expecting with every step to be hit by one of Morgana’s spells, killing him or worse.  
“Fool,” she yelled at his retreating back, “Fool, this means war. I will destroy Arthur and there is nothing you can do to stop me!” With a mere flicker of her eyes she angrily cast a spell and her two guards dropped dead at her feet, their necks broken. Mordred jumped on his horse and rode away, back to Camelot, but his heart was still in turmoil, divided between love and hate for Arthur and everything he stands for.

* * *

“Enjoy your dinner,” Gaius said and placed a wooden bowl in front of Merlin, who looked at it with sleepy, half-closed eyes, picked up his spoon and stirred listlessly in the steaming pottage. Vacantly he stared at the table, seeing nothing.   
“How did work go today,” Gaius asked. No response. “I’m sure Arthur didn’t give you a hard time.” Still no response, Merlin continued stirring his cooling pottage and staring at nothing.  
“Did you know Arthur practices magic?” Gaius said, “He tried to light a torch, but ended up setting his hair on fire instead.”  
“That’s nice,” Merlin answered, not bothering to look up.  
Gaius placed his hand on Merlin’s and said sternly: “Merlin! Look at me!”  
“I am sleepy Gaius, I am so sleepy. There is magic working within me, evil magic, I can barely fight it, I can barely do my duties. I can’t keep this up for much longer, Gaius.”  
“Yes,” Gaius answered, “I know. I also know that Gwaine and Perceval and Leon are helping out, polishing Arthur’s armour, mucking the horses.”  
“Arthur, and Arthur, does he know?”  
“Who are we to know what the king knows?” Gaius answered vaguely, avoiding the question.  
“There must be a cure, there must be!” he said yawning and promptly fell asleep, his head all but missing the now cold pottage.

“Merlin, MERLIN!” thundered Arthur’s voice through the corridors of Camelot, “Merlin!!!”  
The door of Gaius’ rooms flew open and Arthur came striding in. “Gaius, do you know where Merlin is? He was supposed to... He’s in the village isn’t he? In the tavern no doubt.”  
“No Sire, in fact he is... he is not well as you can see.”  
“No, how can I... Oh, I see.”  
“That sleeping spell was a very powerful one, Sire, it did drain most of his energy away.”  
“Well, that can’t have taken long then, the draining.”  
With an enormous yawn Merlin woke up.  
“Well Merlin, now that you’ve had your beauty sleep, and with all that sleeping you must be as beautiful as... as...”  
“As you?”  
“Yes, exactly, as me.”  
“In that case, I think I’ll stay awake. Looking like you is not a very pleasurable prospect.” And with these words he crashed to the ground. Both Gaius and Arthur rushed to him, lifted him gently and laid him on his bed.  
“He is not feeling well Sire,” Gaius said gravely and a bit unnecessary.  
“I know, and still no cure found I gather.”  
“Alas Sire, nothing. The magic was strong. Old and strong. We are lucky Merlin is such a healthy and strong young man, otherwise he would not have survived.”  
“And using... using... sorcery?” It took Arthur a great deal of effort just to propose the use of magic.  
“There are no sorcerers left who might know a cure,” Gaius replied with sadness in his voice, “your father’s purge did make sure of that.”  
“You can’t let him die, do whatever is necessary. I won’t stand in your way. Use whatever recourses you need, but don’t let him die.” He stood close to Gaius now, their faces almost touching. “I’ve lost my father by evil magic, don’t let me lose Merlin too.”  
Merlin groaned, opened his eyes and said: “What time is it?”  
“Time to do some work,” Arthur said, holding a pair of dull and dirty vambraces in his hand and smiling broadly. “This is dirty armour. And do you know what to do with dirty armour? Yes Merlin, you clean it. You polish it.”  
“You could decide not to wear those,” Merlin said slyly.  
“Merlin...” Arthur said with a predatory smile, “If there was nothing to polish, you would be out of a job and without a job no wages and without wages no visits to the tavern.”  
“And where would you find another servant who can actually put up with you.”  
Arthur put the vambraces on the table and started to leave. His eyes bore into Gaius’: “Don’t let him die!”

“It is not a magic I am familiar with,” Gaius said gravely, making sure Arthur had left before talking of magic, “It is old, very old.”  
Both fell silent for a while, thinking. Suddenly Gaius said: “Of course! The ancient archives, there are books there long forgotten, writings older than Camelot itself, writings from before the Old Religion, writings that should not exist.”  
“I must go there,” Merlin said and tried to stand up, “If there’s a cure, I’ll find it.”  
“These books may not be so easy to find and master Geoffrey will certainly not tell you,” Gaius said, “but with your magic you might just find them. First let me make you something for your sleepiness.” With these words he took a handful of beans and tossed them into the fire. Almost immediately a delicious aroma wafted through the room. Gaius took the now dark beans out of the fire and pounded them to a fine powder. He poured hot water on it and after a few minutes gave Merlin the cup. “Drink it, but the liquid only, not the powder on the bottom.”  
Merlin drank and with a contorted face exclaimed: “Gaius, this is so bitter, it tastes horribly!”  
“Yes,” Gaius said with a hint of a smile on his lips, “I forgot to tell you, it is quite bitter, but it will keep you awake for some time. O, and Merlin...” said Gaius as Merlin walked to the door, ”try not to set free a goblin or two if you please...”  
Merlin smiled and rushed off to master Geoffrey of Monmouth.

“Oh, there you are again,” said master Geoffrey in his soft and slightly wheezing voice.  
“It has been three months since the last time master Geoffrey,” Merlin answered and smiled.  
“Yes, yes,” Geoffrey said, “and here you are again. Carefully he dipped his quill in the inkwell.  
“What is it you are writing, master Geoffrey?” Merlin asked, trying to soften up the old man and thus gain access to every nook and cranny of the vast archives.  
“Oh, nothing much, nothing you young people would be interested in,” his eye misting over, his voice warming up to his most favourite subject, “it is the history of this Fair Isle from the earliest of times when it was called Albion, hundreds of centuries ago and no one lived here save a few giants and then from far away Brutus came and there are so many stories I could tell. Did you know---“ but Merlin cut him short.  
“You must tell me this wonderful story another time, master Geoffrey,” Merlin said, “but now I must get some books for Gaius. He really needs them and you know how impatient he can get.”  
“So true, so true,” Geoffrey sighed. Slowly he stood up, took an iron key from his desk and unlocked a heavy door. “Be careful now,” he warned, ”take care not to upset the books and don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to touch.”  
“Yes master Geoffrey, and thank you.”  
Merlin entered the library and Geoffrey returned to his desk. He resumed his writing and quickly lost all track of time.

Merlin wandered through the corridors, trying to detect anything magical, but all he smelled was dust and mildew from ancient books, parchments and other things Merlin did rather not want to know. Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth he went, illuminated only by a magical flame flickering in the palm of his hand. The he felt it: magic. At the end of a damp and low corridor he saw a door, hidden behind a veil of thick cobwebs and lichen. As he neared the door, the magic was getting stronger. “Tospringe,” he whispered and the lock flew open. He entered a small room. “Forbearnan,” thus lighting a torch. There were only a few crude shelves on the bare stone walls and on them no more than fifty scrolls or so, but the magic was overwhelming. Hesitantly he touched a scroll, but nothing happened. Taking the scroll from the shelf, he unrolled it and started to read, hoping with all his heart to find a cure.


	5. Awake! Awake!

“I can’t read it, I can’t... can’t read it...” Merlin sobbed and he was feeling more and more frustrated. For hours he had sat there and scroll after scroll he had opened, very careful as not to damage the fragile parchment and each and every scroll was the same. Line after line of illegible script and undecipherable symbols. And yet, the words were there, he could see them hovering in the corner of his eye, all those strange markings turning into familiar words, at least they looked like words, he thought they were familiar and he felt he could almost read them, but every time he turned his head or even his eyes, the words morphed back into those illegible scribbles. “I can’t read it...” Desperately he closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose; and with a heavy sigh he grabbed another scroll and started to unroll it. Wearily he shook his head: scribbles and scrawls, more and more unreadable scribbles and scrawls. Merlin took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. “There must be a way,” he thought, “there must be a way to read them. There must be a way to find out if there is something here to counteract this sleeping spell. If there is something here at all, for all I know it’s nothing but a shopping list.” He started to feel so very sleepy again, but he knew he must stay awake now. He took a large swig from Gaius’ bitter brown potion and winced at the still horrible taste, but at least it kept him awake for a while.  _Slæp_ . In the corner of his eye he thought he saw that word, very faint and very blurry.  _Slæp_ . There is was again, his eyes moved but a fraction of an inch and it was gone again. “I’m starting to imagine things,“ he thought, but he also knew there was so much magic in these scrolls, it all but leaped from the parchment.

“I must take a scroll to Gaius, he surely must be able to read it,” he finally mumbled and started to roll up one of the parchments.

“If of life you keep a care, shake of slumber, and beware... Awake! Awake!”

Merlin’s heart skipped a beat, he dropped the scroll on the little table and gasped. In front of him stood a human-like creature unlike anything he had ever seen. Black hair, dark piercing eyes, the skin around them an eerie reddish colour. He was naked save for a blue hose with some sort of long white kilt over it and boots of supple white leather. Merlin stared mesmerised at its body: all white with a bluish sheen it was, and completely covered in white spikes, just like a giant porcupine.

“Who... who are you, you... you..., how did you get here, not through the door, I would have heard it, is there a hidden door, yes, that’s it, a hidden door...,” and his eyes darted to and fro, looking but not finding any hidden entrance, “but who are you, have I disturbed something? If so, my deepest apologies, and...,” Merlin gazed with inquisitive eyes at the vaguely smiling creature,“ ...and you look like me,” he said softly, “amazing....” Slowly his hand reached out to that strange being, trying to touch it. “You are me! You are me! Awesome! No, that cannot be, I’m sleeping again, dreaming... and OUCH!” The creature had pinched him hard in his arm. “No, I’m awake, but, you are me... how did you get here, who are you, what are you, what are you doing here...”

“Please allow me to introduce myself,” the creature said, “I am a spirit of the air, an airy Spirit if you like and...” he said, raising his hand, “...and please allow me to explain my presence to you in an uninterrupted fashion, so before you commence your unremitting rambling again, asking half-questions without bothering to wait for an answer, I will try and explain a few things.”

Merlin desperately wanted to say something, but with great effort he managed to keep quiet.

“I am a spirit, my dear Emrys, I come and go as I please. Don’t look so surprised, I know who you are. And as to why I am here, well, you summoned me, but without you even being aware of doing so. In a way I am you, as you are me. You see me, and yet you see yourself. You hear me, yet you hear yourself.” The spirit stood very close to Merlin now, his mouth inches from Merlin’s ear. “You must believe in yourself Emrys,” he whispered, “believe in yourself! Only then will you unlock the powers hidden deep within you.” He paused for a moment, and then said: “But we will come to that later, first there are these scrolls...” and suddenly the Spirit stood on the other side of the room. “These scrolls...” and he sat on the top shelf of the book-case. “I told you Emrys, I come and go as I please, when I please,” and he stood in front of Merlin again. “The words, Emrys, the words on these scrolls are asleep. And yes, to answer the question you have just asked yourself in your mind, they do contain the answer to your problem, you can set your mind at rest. What that answer is, I do not know, that is for you to find. Well, actually I do know, but I’m not telling. But the words, Emrys, the words must be awoken first.”

“But how can words be asleep?” Merlin asked, intrigued.

“You are a sorcerer Emrys, you should know that nothing is impossible, not even slumbering words.”

Merlin took a scroll in his hand and said, _“Ic biddan becumen nu worde”_ and for a brief moment his eyes turned golden. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he cocked his head a little and tried again: _“Ic ascian that thu awæcest!”_. Nothing.

“It won’t work, my dear Emrys, your spells will have no effect whatsoever. But there are spells to unlock its secrets, spells almost older than time itself. You must find those spells in your head, for they are there.” The spirit edged closer to Merlin, their faces almost touching. He rapped his finger quite hard against Merlin’s temple: “Find the spells in there, Emrys. For not only were you born with the magic of the Old Religion, the magic before that time also flows in you. You are powerful, more powerful than you can possibly imagine, more powerful than anyone can imagine. Finding the magic within you to read these scrolls is only the beginning. I know this, Emrys, I know this because I am you, I can see inside your brain, into your very being.” Merlin found he couldn’t avert his eyes from the spirit’s penetrating gaze. “You Emrys,” he whispered, barely audible now, “you have a destiny. You are to be the greatest warlock of all time, protecting the greatest king this kingdom of Camelot has ever seen. Kilgharrah already has told you this and I can do nothing but repeat it. I know what you have seen in your nightmares, those dreams where Arthur and Mordred fell, mortally wounded, at that fateful plain of Camlann. But that dream is not only your destiny, it is part of other destinies too, Mordred’s destiny, Arthur’s destiny. And remember my dear Emrys, the future is made up of innumerable destinies. Shape that future Emrys, shape your destiny, shape those around you and you can start by awakening these words, for if you do not find the spell to counteract Morgana’s, your destiny, and your very life, will be very short indeed. And you would be wise Emrys, to bear in mind that Morgana does not have that kind of immense power, that sleeping spell was given to her by someone with very great magical skills indeed!”

Fighting to stay awake, Merlin yawned and took another sip of the potion. There was not much left.

“Try not too hard to find the answer, Emrys, it is already in your mind. All you have to do is search and you will find what you are looking for. I am afraid I cannot help you, as much as I would like to. Empty your mind Emrys, empty your mind.” And suddenly the Spirit’s face and a slightly mocking voice resembled Arthur’s and he said: “Now, that shouldn’t be too hard, emptying your mind, should it Merlin,” and seconds later he morphed back to his former self.

“But how…,” Merlin said, but the spirit had vanished, leaving him with the unreadable scrolls and more questions than answers. He felt a tight knot forming in his stomach, his hands turned cold and his throat was suddenly dry as he remembered that dire warning: “your life will be very short indeed”. And he also remembered that other remark: it was Morgana who had cast the sleeping spell. 

Carefully he put the scrolls back in their wooden cases. One he took with him for Gaius to have a look at. He didn’t know why he took that particular one, it was a hunch, or perhaps he was already, and unknowingly, guided by the ancient magic within him.

 

* * *

 

“You failed, Morgana,” Macha screamed, seething with fury, “you failed miserably.”

“I failed? I FAILED? I saw him fall!” Morgana shouted back.

“And I saw him get up again, you fool, you bungler”

 It was your magic, you stupid witch, It was YOUR magic that failed!”

“My magic is strong enough, stupid cow, but the vessel that conducts my magic must be strong also and you certainly lack in that department!”

The two women stood there facing each other, trembling and burning with rage.

“And how do you know Merlin got up again,” Morgana said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “you’re trapped here.”

“Do you really think that, just because I cannot leave this place, I have no knowledge of everything that happens in Camelot? I have a spy there Morgana, a spy who is my ears and eyes, and you wouldn’t believe the things he told me about you!” Her voice became shriller and louder with each word she hurled at Morgana.

“Then you should know how strong my magic is,” she hollered back.

At that moment Macha’s eyes rolled back, leaving only the whites visible. She sat stock-still, even her breathing seemed to have stopped. Her lips moved soundlessly for a while, then all of a sudden she collapsed on the earthen floor. Morgana just looked at her, not quite knowing what to do. After a few seconds Macha sat up again and with a lugubrious grin she said: “I just got a message. Merlin still lives, but he is getting more and more weak. He might even die. I just might give you another chance to redeem yourself.”

 

* * *

 

There, in the kitchen of Camelot, amidst the hustle and bustle of the chopping, plucking, cooking and roasting on hot and roaring fires, on a low stool he sat, Cerdic the kitchen boy, waiting for something to do. Asking for it he could not, for Uther had his tongue cut out for speaking out of turn in front of other kings and thus embarrassing him, and after he lost his tongue Uther had banished him, Cerdic, Keeper of the Wardrobe, to the kitchen, far from the Great Hall and the Royal Chambers. And every day revenge was gnawing at him, eating him away.

The kitchen-staff talks freely when he is around, for he cannot reveal their secrets, he cannot speak and he cannot write. And all the girls and some of the boys confide in him, pouring out their hearts on just about everything, but mainly on their real or unattainable beloved, knowing their secrets are safe with him. So Cerdic sat there, silently, eyes forever downcast, listening to all the gossip and idle chatter.

And thus he heard Rose, a smelly scullery-maid, talk to nobody in particular while she was scouring some cooking-pots: “ ’Ave you ‘eard ‘bout poor Merlin? ‘E’s awake they say, and it’s true, I’ve seen ‘im meself, such a weak boy he is, so weak, it breaks y’r ‘eart. Even Gaius can’t do nothin’ they say. I said to Nell, ‘e won’t last another day I said to ‘er, ‘e won’t, ‘e won’t see another sunrise I said…”

And Cerdic sat there, listening. Someone smacked him on the back of his head. “Take this to master Geoffrey and be quick about it, you lazy rattle-brain,” and a wooden platter loaded with bread, cheese, cold meats and a flagon of ale was thrust into his hands. Cerdic took the plate and quickly scuttled away.

 

After delivering the platter to a distracted master Geoffrey, who was writing with great haste as if he might forget the words he wanted to write down, Cerdic went to his little hide-away in some forgotten corner of Camelot. Here at least he could find some peace and quiet among his treasures he had collected over the years; bits of broken crockery, discarded spoons, a rusty eating-knife. In the corner stood a crude wooden statue of a woman. Cerdic took it in his hands and concentrated. He felt his mind melting together with the statue. A sudden jerk of his body, his eyes rolled back and the link was established. In his mind he heard a voice, cracking with old age, and in his mind he formed words, letting them flow through his arms and hands to the statue. “O great goddess Macha,” came his voiceless words, “this is your obedient servant Cerdic speaking. Merlin is still alive, but he is getting more and more weak. Talk is he may not live to see another sunrise.”

 

 * * *

 

“So, the boy is weak and dying,” said Morgana, her malicious voice dripping with contempt, “I was strong enough after all, as if I ever doubted it myself.”

“Weak yes, but dying no. I don’t believe that for a second. The boy is strong, otherwise he would not have survived. And I’m sure you will be able to harm him a little bit more, but with your pathetic magic that’s just about all you can do.”

Morgana’s nostrils flared and her eyes flashed with uncontrollable anger. A spell formed on her lips, a spell to do serious damage to that miserable old crone sitting there, looking  so very complacent and disdainful.

“Before you unleash that pathetic little magic of yours, you pitiful conjurer, it might be wise to save it for something more important. No matter what, that young upstart of a warlock will die before the moon is full, and with him that unbearable prat Arthur. When I gave you that spell, I also told you there was a price to pay and you agreed. So, whether you like it or not, and I really don’t care one way or another, the time for you to pay has come.” She stretched out her bony hands and suddenly Morgana felt her gnarled fingers inside her head. She screamed and screamed until she could scream no more.


	6. One born from twice dead

With a florish George opened the curtains of Arthur’s bedroom. The delicious smell of freshly baked bacon, eggs and bread wafted through the air, the rays of the early morning sun filled the room and lit up Arthur’s sleepy face, making his hair even more golden.

“A very good morning Sire,” George said, and started fussing around. Arthur groaned inwardly. Of all the servants available, he had to get George. Again. “Merlin, Merlin, please come back,” he thought and heaved a sigh, but he knew it was all for the best. Merlin and Gaius needed time to try and find a cure and quickly too, for Merlin simply fell asleep where he stood, like yesterday while pouring wine and half of it landed on Arthur’s lap instead of in his goblet; and Merlin stood there swaying, eyes closed and all but snoring. Merlin tried to wipe the wine away, but he managed to make it even worse, ruining Arthur’s hose and shirt; and then his hand landed on the rim of a plate filled with roasted pork, catapulting the meat and it landed on Arthur’s head. “Thank you Merlin,” he had said, “but I prefer to have it actually in my mouth.”  
“Yes Sire,” Merlin had answered, plucking pieces of pork from Arthur’s hair, “I thought I might save you some time getting the meat to you this way. You’re not very good at catching are you?”  
“No Merlin, but I’m sure I can learn from you. What if I simply put you in the stocks and I’ll pelt you with fruit. I’m sure you’ll be able to catch some in your mouth! It will be fun and I can learn from you at the same time!”  
“Ah, yes, my favourite past-time, the good old pillory. Brings back memories. And don’t forget to include some tomatoes. And grapes. Grapes are good for catching. More wine Sire?”  
And now he was stuck with George. Efficient, predictable, utterly boring George.  
“I hope you did sleep well Sire,” George said, “I took the liberty of laying out your clothes for you to wear this morning, including a freshly polished mail shirt, and your bath will be ready shortly, after you have had your breakfast.”  
“Where is Merlin,” Arthur said, sitting up in bed and flexing his muscles.

“I am sure he will be here any moment now I think Sire, as he does every morning,” he said with a hint of disapprovement in his voice. “But while you wait Sire, perhaps I can while away the time by telling you an amusing anecdote I just remembered. It is very amusing Sire,” and George, stone-faced, never smiling George actually chuckled. “Very amusing and diverting indeed Sire. It is a humorous story about brass.”  
An audible groan now escaped Arthur’s lips and he let himself fall back on the cushions, closing his eyes. At that moment the door burst open and Percival came storming in, big smile on his face, followed by Merlin.  
“Sire, Mordred has returned,” Percival said, catching his breath, totally ignoring George’s disapproving frown. Very deliberately George started to wipe away the mud-stains left by Percival’s boots. Arthur’s face lit up and he smiled broadly. Merlin on the other hand looked gloomy, a deep frown on his forehead.  
“Come on Merlin, no need to look so glum, you look like a cranky wilddeorren. Mordred is back, be happy. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how to smile,” said Arthur and he jumped out of bed, stretching his arms in front of him. Merlin tried to take a shirt to dress Arthur, but George got there first, all but shoving Merlin aside. “How is he?”  
“Tired and dusty, but otherwise fine. He’s waiting in the Great Hall.”  
“What are we waiting for, let’s go,” Arthur exclaimed and swiftly walked away, followed by Percival and Merlin.  
“But your breakfast Sire, and your bath---“ George said, but his words fell deaf on the heavy door.

“I am ready to get back to work Sire,” Mordred said, after a warm and heartfelt welcome from Arthur, “my apologies for running away like that.”  
“I understand Mordred,” Arthur answered, “I wasn’t easy for you. But we’re all glad you’re back and that’s the end of it. We’ll talk no more of it”  
“Thank you Sire.”  
Mordred looked around, looked at the Knights gathered there, smiling and talking, and his gaze fell on Merlin. Their eyes locked and Mordred saw the distrust in Merlin’s eyes, saw his frown, his coldness. “You still don’t trust me, do you,” Mordred said, using his Druid-voice so only Merlin could hear.  
“I know you are a loyal knight of Camelot and loyal to Arthur,” Merlin answered, also using only his mind as he followed Arthur into the corridor, one thought predominantly on his mind: _Arthur shall die by a Druid’s hand_.  
“That is not an answer.” With the accusing voice of Mordred sounding loud in his head, Merlin kept silent as he walked with Arthur back to his chambers.

 

* * *

 

Merlin looked out of the window and saw the Knights training in the courtyard. Sunlight bounced of the brightly polished armour and helmets; and the air was filled with the clanging of swords, maces and quarterstaffs. Merlin rubbed his eyes and yawned. The whole afternoon he and Gaius had been busy trying to decipher the scroll, but to no avail. Merlin had desperately tried to empty his mind, to concentrate, anything to be able to understand those scribbles, but he had gotten nowhere. He had tried summoning the spirit again, but the creature did not appear. He had tried tapping into his unconsciousness to try and find the hidden magic the spirit had told him about and his frustration grew and grew when nothing happened.  
A deafening roar rose from the courtyard below and Merlin saw Arthur lying on his back on the flagstones, the point of Mordred’s sword mere inches from his throat. He saw Percival and Gwaine laughing and he saw Mordred holding out his hand to help Arthur back to his feet. Arthur took off his helmet, his damp hair plastered on his head, sweat dripping from his face. He laughed too, clapped Mordred on his shoulder and both men went to get some water. _Arthur shall die by a Druid’s hand._  
“Empty your mind, empty your mind,” Merlin kept saying this to himself.  
Merlin went to the table and looked at the scroll. He tried to calm his breathing and stared at one particular point of the parchment. He tried to think of nothing, only looking at that point and everything around him became a blur, but the scroll did not reveal its secret. Again he felt so very tired and above all so powerless. He let himself fall on his bed and fell instantly asleep.

That night Merlin left Camelot and he went to a clearing in the woods. “ _O Drakon, e mala soi ftengometta tesd’hup’ anakes!_ ” he shouted, using his commanding and deep Dragonlord voice. After a short while he heard the flapping of enormous wings and a huge shape blotted out the stars. With difficulty Kilgharrah landed and he limped over to Merlin.  
“Yes young warlock, what is it now,” he rasped, “even in my last days here on earth you will give me no peace,” and he sat down heavily, groaning.  
“I know and I am truly sorry to disturb you, but my question is of the greatest importance, of life and death.”  
“Questions, questions, young warlock, always questions and never answers.”  
“I am not well, I’ve been hit by an ancient spell and it’s slowly killing me. I can’t take it much longer, my strength is fleeting. I don’t know what it is but I do know there is ancient magic in me too, all I have to do is find it but I can’t. And there’s this scroll which seems to hold an answer of some sort which I’m supposed to read but I can’t. You who are old and wise, please help me.”  
“Well, at least you said ‘please’,” Kilgharrah chuckled, “Yes, there is great magic in you, I knew that from the beginning I saw you. All you have to do is find it.”  
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” Merlin shouted, frustration mounting.  
“Trying very hard no doubt. Mayhap therein lies the answer you seek young warlock, trying too hard. Try a little less hard next time, words need to be awoken gently, but you’ve been told that already haven’t you,” and with these words the dragon started to leave.  
“That’s it? That’s all you can tell me? I will not accept that. You will tell me all you know. I, the last Dragonlord, command you!”  
“You can summon me, young warlock and we both know I must do your bidding, but I can tell you no more.” His head swung towards Merlin, stopping a few yards from his face. All Merlin could see was a giant maw with still razor-sharp teeth, and an overwhelming stench of sulphur and decay engulfed him, making him gag. “Only the ancient gods of a time long forgotten knew how to cast the spell that is consuming you now and the ancient magic deep within you was able to counteract some of its effects. Somehow that ancient magic has come back to this world. You are strong young warlock, very strong. Take that scroll and the answer will come to you. The magic will come to you.” And with those words Kilgharrah, with much groaning and moaning, stood up and flew slowly away, one wing hardly beating at all.  
Merlin stood there, all flustered and worn out, unable to move or even to think. Finally, with a heavy heart he walked back to Camelot, hardly aware of his surroundings or where he was going.

 

The next morning, after a hasty breakfast of gluey porridge and cold water, he tried again. He opened the scroll and looked at it, walked around it, closed his eyes, mumbled spells, tapped at it, talked to it, but all to no avail. In an uncharacteristic fit of fury he grabbed his beaker and with an almost primeval yell threw it with great force against the wall. Furiously and without thinking he snatched the scroll and suddenly there it was: words. He could see words, very faint and short-lived: “ _an gebyrt of twegan dead_ ”.  
Then the words faded as quickly as they had appeared. He looked at the parchment, stunned and hardly believing his eyes. “I did it,” he whispered, “I DID IT!” He shouted and laughed, punched the air, a huge smile on his face. He looked at his fingers and felt a tingling in his fingertips, felt something coursing through his veins, through every fiber of his body.  
“The words, what were the words…” he said, grabbing a piece of old parchment from Gaius’ cluttered workbench. He sat down, trying to calm his nerves. “Think, think Merlin, think…” he mumbled as he took a quill and tried to remember. He forced himself to calm down and wrote down what he thought was correct: “ _an gebyrt of twegan dead_ ”. He recognized the language of old, the language of magic, for he had cast so many spells in it. “ _One born from twice dead_ ,” it read.  
“Gaius, Gaius,” Merlin said as the physician entered the room, “There are words on the scroll, I just read some of them. I can do it Gaius, I can do it!”  
Gaius smiled broadly, making his face even more wrinkled. “That’s wonderful Merlin, finally we are getting somewhere. What was it you read?”  
“One born from twice dead,” Merlin answered, “All I have to do now is try and understand it and read the rest of the scroll.”  
“You make it sound so easy Merlin, but what does it mean and how did you do it?”  
“I don’t know yet, but we’ll find out. And I felt something, a tingling all over. It’s happening Gaius, it’s finally happening!”  
“I’m so glad Merlin,” Gaius said; and the old man put his bony arms on Merlin’s shoulders.  
A knock on the door and Sir Leon entered. “Arthur requests your presence Gaius, and Merlin’s too.”

 

* * *

 

“I respectfully request an audience with Arthur King of Camelot,” the boy, seated on a dappled horse, said as he approached the gate,. A haughty stance, dark piercing eyes, long dark hair and some fluffy hairs on his cheeks, an adolescent trying to grow a beard. “May I offer you my credentials,” and he handed the guards a scroll.  
The guards looked at the writing, looked at the boy and said: “Please enter the courtyard and wait for a while sir, King Arthur will be notified.”  
“Very well,” the boy said curtly, tucking the scroll back into his saddle bag.  
After a short while a guard came back and said: “King Arthur will see you later this afternoon sir. Someone will come momentarily, take care of your horse and show you to our guest quarters.”  
The boy nodded and let his gaze wander around the courtyard.  
“Hey, you,” he shouted as Gwen walked past, “yes you, serving girl, get me a decent stable boy will you, my horse need grooming.”  
Gwen curtsied, smiling, and said: “Of course sir.” She turned around, bumped into Merlin and said: “Merlin, this gentleman needs someone to look after his horse,” and whispered so only Merlin could hear: “He thinks I’m a serving girl”.  
“Right,” Merlin said and walked over to the boy who looked rather condescendingly at Merlin.  
“You’re a stable boy?”  
“No, but—”  
“Good. Take this horse to the stables and answer my question. Do you know of a girl named Guinevere.”  
“Yes I do, and—”  
“You know her, good. Of course you know her, she’s a servant like you after all. My father did talk a lot about her. Soppy stories, I hardly ever listened to them. A scullery-maid I think she was.”  
“Well, she’s a little more than that,” Merlin answered, smiling vaguely.  
“Well, risen to the ranks of serving girl I imagine.”  
“Well, not exactly—”  
“Tell her I need to talk to her about my father.”  
“Your father?”  
“Yes, my father and I don’t see that’s any business of yours. Now, go and get her, will you, I must talk to her at once!”  
“You just missed her, that was Gwen, Guinevere, you talked to just a minute ago.”  
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he said, raising his voice and his cheeks flushed red with anger, “get her this instant, you simpleton. What’s your name again?”  
“Merlin, it’s Merlin. I’m—”  
“Well, Merlin, I’ll make sure King Arthur will hear about this, you impertinent boy. He’ll have you in the stocks or whipped before you know it. Now get Guinevere before I lose my temper!”  
“Sir,” and Merlin ran away, his face serious but inwardly laughing, looking for Gwen.  
“And what about my horse!” he shouted, but Merlin was already gone.

“He does look kind of familiar,” Gwen said to Merlin, “I can’t quite put my finger on it.” She looked out of the window to where the boy stood, waiting, impatiently tapping his foot, yelling at a stable boy and cuffing his ear. The unfortunate boy quickly tried to take the horse to the stables to avoid being hit again.  
“Will you go to him?”  
“Hmm, no, not now. Tell him I’m busy preparing for the feast tonight and I’m not allowed to leave. So he thinks I’m a serving girl, a scullery maid even! You know Merlin, I think I’m going to have some fun, get him of his high horse. Tell him I’ll be seeing him this afternoon. I know Arthur will summon him and I will be there too. I really want to see his face when he sees me on the throne. And please, don’t tell Arthur. Then can he tell me all about that father of his. I don’t know, it’s like I’ve seen him before.”  
“Yes, he does look kind of familiar. Right, I’ll tell him.”

Later that afternoon Merlin went to the guest quarters and said the boy who sat there, beaker of ale in his hand and the remains of his lunch still on the table: “Sir, King Arthur desires to see you, at your convenience. He is waiting in the Great Hall. Please follow me.”  
“It’s about time.”

Merlin swung open the doors of the Great Hall and bade the boy to enter. He strode into the Hall, saw Guinevere sitting on the throne besides Arthur and he turned as white as a sheet, before he turned a deep crimson red. He fell on one knee, his head bowed and stammered: “Please forgive me my queen, I… I… I did not know you were… I mean, I… My King, I give you my most sincere greetings, my queen, I… please forgive my impertinence.”  
“Please arise sir,” Arthur said, “and do you mind telling me what’s going on here.” He looked at Gwen who sat there with a huge smile on her face.  
“We met this afternoon in the courtyard,” she said, “and this gentleman mistook me for a serving girl. An honest mistake, I’m sure.”  
“My queen,” he said, “I offer you my most deepest apologies.”  
“Well sir, I have been given to understand you came here on a mission of the utmost importance,” Arthur intervened, “may we know your name and lineage first.”  
“My name, Sire, is Galahad, son of Lancelot.”  
Arthur opened his mouth, but no sound came. Gwen just looked at him, stunned, and slowly she understood. Now she realized why he did look so familiar, only now did she see Lancelot in Galahad’s facial features, saw him in his eyes, in the the curve of his lips.  
“Lancelot? You’re the son of Lancelot?”  
“Yes, Sire, I am indeed. I have in my possession a letter my father wrote some years ago, intended for the lady Guinevere. I came here to both offer you my services and to impart this letter to Guinevere, whom I thought to be a serving girl…” and Galahad’s face turned crimson again.  
“A son of Lancelot? But how is that possible, I mean, how old are you?”  
“I am eighteen summers old Sire, soon to be nineteen.”  
“Cerdic, go and tell George… forget it, you can’t talk. Luke, tell George to prepare a room for Galahad, our guest. Cerdic, please escort master Galahad to his chambers. May I invite you to our feast tonight?”  
“The honour is all mine,” Galahad said, bowing deep.  
“A son of Lancelot,” Arthur said after Galahad had left. “Who would have thought.”  
“Yes,” answered Gwen, still a bit shaken.  
“Merlin, are you planning on standing there all day? Go and do something useful, like getting my clothes for tonight.”  
“No Sire,” Merlin said, “Yes Sire.”

 

* * *

 

Suddenly, in the woods not far from Camelot and seemingly out of nowhere, a woman stepped into view. Her body was bent and she walked with unsteady steps. A cracking voice, old and feeble, said: “Finally, free at last!” Her head turned towards the setting sun and its rays illuminated her half-hidden face. She smiled, cruel and cold. A few more unsteady steps. “Your final days are upon you,” she said in a voice both of Morgana and Macha, “Revenge at last! You will suffer, Arthur Pendragon, you will suffer as my kind has suffered. Your death will be a most agonizing one, and ever so slow. And the same fate will befall your precious and meddlesome Merlin.” Another laugh, horrible and shrill. “And you thought I couldn’t leave my cave, didn’t you. I am so sorry, I forgot to tell you I can leave, but I need a willing vessel to do so. And you, poor gullible Morgana, you proved to be the perfect vessel,” and slowly her voice started to sound exactly like Morgana’s, and her stance became less and less bent.  
And Morgana knew everything what was happening, she heard her voice utter words she did not speak, she felt her limbs move; but she was completely helpless, trapped in her own body. She let out a shrill cry, but she was the only one who could hear it, no sound escaped her lips.


	7. For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible…

They never knew what hit them, the envoy of king Ban of Dinas Emrys and his companions. They were on their way to Camelot to pay homage to king Arthur, to strengthen the friendship between the two kingdoms, to exchange gifts and to bring news. King Ban himself was unable to come, during a joust a large piece of wood from a splintered lance flew through the slits of his visor, shattering his right eye, immobilizing him. To ensure a more safe passage through Saxon-infested land, they were dressed as poor day-labourers, riding shabby horses; their precious gifts hidden on a simple wooden cart and covered in cloths and straw. Suddenly their horses stopped dead in their tracks, their unblinking eyes staring at nothing. The men sat like statues in the saddle, not moving a muscle, their eyes devoid of any life or recognition.

From the darkness of the dense undergrowth and gnarled trees, like a black shadow detaching itself from an even blacker darkness, Morgana suddenly stepped into view, brushed a few leaves and spiders from her dress and smiled a cold smile. Cerdic had been right, the envoy did indeed travel via this path. A plan then had formed in her mind and with great haste she had come to this secluded spot. She walked to the cart, lifted the coarse cloth and gazed upon the precious gifts. She found a splendid mail shirt hidden beneath the straw and she smiled even more, the sparkle of the cold steel of the rings reflected in her equally cold eyes. That surely must be intended for Arthur, she thought, just the thing I need. Her right hand hovered above it and in her mind she cast a spell. Carefully she put the mail shirt back where she had found it. “Goodbye Arthur,” she whispered and with a scornful laughter she disappeared back into the woods. At that moment the horses woke up and started walking again as if nothing had happened and the men sat there a little puzzled, looking around, trying to figure out where that sudden gust of wind had come from. “Creepy woods,” they muttered, but the incident was soon forgotten, for in the distance they saw the white crenellated towers of Camelot sparkling in the midday sun.

 

* * *

 

“You are quiet today my love,” Arthur said and he gently took Gwen’s chin in his hand, gazing into her dark eyes.

“I was only thinking, nothing more.”

“Happy thoughts I hope.”

“Oh yes, Arthur, very happy indeed. I was merely thinking of the past.”

“Good,” he said a bit awkward, wondering if he should ask what she had been thinking about, show some interest, but he decided to let it go and left, leaving Gwen alone with her thoughts and the preparations for the feast tonight. He hurried to the Great Hall where the envoy of king Ban was waiting for him. He longed to hear some news from the kingdoms of the north, and to inquire after king Ban’s health.

 

Gwen was indeed thinking of the past. She had read the letter Galahad had given her earlier, the letter Lancelot had written for her, so many years ago now and every time she read it, she had to smile and laugh and cry. In the most tender words he had recalled the moment they had first met and how he had instantly fallen in love with her. “I will love you always,” he had written, “just as you promised to always love me.” Gwen cried when she read this, tears of love and tears of pain. Both had known it could not be, they could never be together, somehow she had always known her heart could only belong to Arthur, and Lancelot had known that too. She carried the letter hidden in her bodice now, to have Lancelot close to her heart once more.

“I think I will wear the purple gown tonight,” Gwen said to her maid-servant. She curtsied, took the dress and hurried away to get it spotlessly clean. All alone now Gwen sat on her chair and sighed, her hand touching Lancelot’s letter through the fabric of her dress. “I still love you Lancelot,” she whispered, a far-away smile on her lips.

 

* * *

 

“Lancelot’s son?” Gwaine said with a voice full of disbelief, “Galahad’s his son?”

“He can’t be,” chimed in Percival, “I mean, how old is he anyway? Twenty-something? He can’t be. I mean, how old was Lancelot when he was with us? In his twenties surely! And he is supposed to have a son almost his own age?”

“Well, he did lie about his lineage,” said Leon, “so he might very well have been lying about his age too.”

“Yes, but come on… Merlin, MERLIN, come over here,” Gwaine shouted, “Merlin, do you know how old Lancelot was when he was with us? You must know, you’re an archive-dweller, you speak with master Geoffey, you know stuff and things.”

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t know,” Merlin answered, “It seems there was more to Lancelot then all of us ever knew.”

“Yes, posing as the fifth son of Lord Eldred of Northumbria!”

“And getting banished from Camelot for that!”

“And ending up in Hengest’s kingdom, fighting the wildeorren.”

“And rescuing Guinevere at the same time!”

“You know, I always thought there was something between those two.”

“Why not ask Galahad himself,” suggested Merlin, effectively shutting the Knights up. They could go on for hours like this, especially Gwaine.

“No, couldn’t do that, that would be imposing,” Percival replied, “Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“In his chambers, bullying the servants,” Merlin said, “but he’ll be here any moment now to  practice with the lot of you.”

“Ha! Finally a chance to see if he has the skills of his father, I’m ready for him!” Gwaine boasted and he swung his sword dangerously close to Merlin’s head.

At that moment Galahad entered the courtyard, armour clanking, his helmet under his arm.

“Wow, now that’s what I call shining armour,” Gwaine said, leaning on his quarter-staff and squinting as the reflected sunlight from the armour all but blinded him.

“Merlin,” Arthur said dangerously nice and putting his arm around Merlin’s shoulder, “now, take a good look. What do you see?”

“Someone in heavy armour, trying not to stumble.”

“No Merlin, all you see is that wonderful armour. It shines, it sparkles, it’s _polished_! Why don’t you go to his servant and learn some secrets about proper armour-polishing!”

“Well, Sire, it may sparkle and shine, but you know what they say, a knight in shining armour is a man who has never had his metal truly tested.”

Involuntary the knights looked at Galahad’s brand-new armour and then they looked at their own: dull, dented and their coats of mail were missing numerous rings, showing the greasy gambesons underneath.

“Don’t tell me you’re turning philosophical Merlin,” Arthur remarked with a sigh, slowly patting Merlin’s shoulder, “and no need to change the subject, I won’t let you forget it”.

“Well,” Percival said lazily, picking up his sword, “let’s test that metal of his, see what’s he’s made off.”

“Excellent idea,” and Arthur immediately turned into the focused and formidable fighter he was, “Who wants to go first?”

But before they could do anything, Galahad halted them and exclaimed: “My name is Galahad son of Lancelot. I implore you to send your best fighter so we can commence into a test of strength. No need for weaklings, I cannot be bothered with them.”

“So you think you’re the best, are you,” said Gwaine.

“Indeed I am Sir, I was taught by the best.”

“If you mean Lancelot, then yes, you had a good teacher.”

“You, serving boy,” Galahad shouted at Merlin, “you, get me my sword I left lying there and be quick about it.”

“You heard him Merlin,” Arthur said, smiling that predatory smile of his, “go get him his sword.”

Merlin walked to the rack where the swords were hanging, but an impatient voice stopped him short: “Never mind, you simpleton, I’ll get it myself. I need it today in case you didn’t know.” With great strides Galahad walked past Merlin, knocking him to the ground. “You might consider getting another serving boy, Sire,” he said to Arthur and stood there, ready to do battle.

“No,” said Arthur, “we’ll fight with the quarter-staff first. Sir Leon, your turn.”

Merlin quickly took Galahad’s sword and handed him a quarter-staff. Galahad tested the weapon and he looked with sheer arrogance and contempt at Leon. The fight did not last long, Galahad proved no match for the skillful Leon and in no time Galahad’s quarter-staff was knocked out of his hands. “Get me that quarter-staff,” Galahad shouted angry at Merlin. The second round proved even shorter and Arthur declared Sir Leon the winner.

“Now Galahad, I think it’s time to test your sword-skills. Anyone in particular you wish to fight? Gwaine, Percival, Merlin…”

Galahad nodded at Gwaine and said curtly: “You.”

“Wish me luck boys, I need it,” Gwaine whispered with a twinkling is his eyes matching his smile.

“Boy, BOY, get me my sword now, you lazy toad!”

Furiously Galahad hacked away at Gwaine who parried each blow easily. He got his sword under Galahad’s, twisted it and Galahad had to drop the weapon, or his wrist would instantly be broken.

“That move was not worthy of a knight,” he grunted, nursing his painful wrist.

Gwaine merely shrugged his shoulders, picked up Galahad’s sword and offered it to him. Galahad didn’t even look at it.

“Galahad,” Arthur intervened, “I can see you have the potential to become a good swordsman. A pity Lancelot could not have trained you more.”

Galahad threw his helmet on the ground, unbuckled his vambraces and they too landed in the sand. He strode away, but Arthur called him back: “We will see you at the banquet tonight, your King requests your presence.”

Galahad turned and answered curtly: “It will be my pleasure and privilege, Sire.” He bowed stiffly and disappeared into the castle, leaving his armour lying around for the servants to collect.

 

“Doesn’t he remind you of someone?” Merlin asked Arthur.

“No, why?”

“Well, you know… condescending, obnoxious, an arrogant prat.”

“No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Supercilious, self-satisfied, insufferable…”

“Yes Merlin, I get it, you know big words, but we know that already, don’t we.”

“Still, watching Galahad is like looking back in time.”

“Will you be a little bit more comprehensible Merlin, who does he remind you of.”

“In two words?”

“Yes Merlin, in two words,” and Arthur let out an exasperated sigh.

“King Arthur.”

“Pick up that shield Merlin.”

“You’re not going to… Oh no.. no, no, no, you’re not!”

“Pick it up Merlin,” and the spiked ball of the flail Arthur was holding swished a little bit too close to Merlin’s head.

Merlin picked up the heavy shield and with great force the first blow landed on it. He stumbled, found his footing again and with both hands gripped the shield as if his life depended on it.

“Obnoxious?” and the flail hit the shield again. “ARROGANT?” and the ball bashed on the shield,  sending sparks and woodchips flying. He felt his whole body trembling now from the impact of the blows. “PRAT?” Another hit and Merlin fell backwards, letting the shield cover his upper body, and still the blows kept coming. “Are we talking about the same person Merlin?”

“Do you know another King Arthur, Sire?”

“No, but I suggest _you_ do,” and the spiked ball landed with a thud mere inches from Merlin’s head. “And when you’re done resting, you can clean my armour.”

“Yes Sire,” Merlin croaked.

 

* * *

 

_I really can feel it now, I am getting stronger. I can feel this ancient magic in every fiber of my body, I can feel it tingling all over, feel it in every nerve. There are snippets of spells floating in my mind, half-formed words, vague ideas, images, anything, but it’s all so random. I can’t form one of those ancient spells yet, can’t see them clearly, but they are there, lurking… Like those words on the scroll, being there and not being there. But there is something that’s really bothering me, frightening me even. The sleeping-spell is growing in strength also. I don’t know why, there must be a link or something. Whoever gave me this magic did play a cruel trick on me. Strength and weakness always in balance, like in the Old Religion: for every life given, one must also be taken, the balance of the world must be restored. And now my balance is being restored, but that spell is not a part of me, so I am being destroyed and not restored._

_I tried to read the scroll again today, and I really am making progress, I was able to read a few sentences, no, I was able to “wake up some words”. I don’t know what they mean yet, but there is mention of dreams. I wrote them down, in case I forget or the words on the scroll should suddenly decide to go to sleep again:_

_Hwæt, ic swefna cyst_

_Secgan wylle,_

_Hwæt me gemætte_

_To midre nihte,_

_Syðþan reordberend_

_Reste wunedon._

_Yes, there’s dreams and sleep in there: “Hear while I tell about the best of dreams which came to me the middle of one night while humankind were sleeping in their beds”. That’s what it says._

_I’m, well, Gaius and me that is, we’re also trying to solve the first words I read: “one born from twice dead”. Well, I’m sure it will come to me. To us I mean. In the meantime I’m doing all I can to solve the riddle and to stay awake. It comes and goes now, the sleepiness, but most of the time it’s there. Arthur is very nice about it, I know he really cares, but he doesn’t always show it. I mean, did he really had to clobber me with that flail? Luckily George had already cleaned his armour and polished it too when I came to see him in his chambers! You know, I’ve seen images in my head of Arthur coming to see me while I was in such a deep sleep, right after I was hit by that spell, he came to me every day and gave me water to drink. I don’t know if it was real or just a dream. I’m not asking him, that’s for sure! I’ll ask Gaius and whhoooaaaaa! My head, it explodes! So many things happening, so many words, so many images, the pain… the light… hot swords slicing into my brain, I can’t see… can’t breathe… I can’t take it anymore, I… I…_

And Merlin crashed to the floor, head clasped between his hands, face contorted in agony. Then it was over. He lay still, breathing rapidly. His ashen face was covered in sweat. Slowly he tried to stand up again. He staggered, leaning on the table for support. His felt his heartbeat slowing, his breathing more regular. He shook his head and with his sleeve wiped the sweat from his face, rubbing the salty drops in his eyes, making them sting and water. In his head he felt something, like the nucleus of a new spell. He tried to concentrate, but whatever it was, it remained hidden, leaving nothing but a dull headache.

 

* * *

 

“This is so beautiful,” Arthur said, admiring his new mail shirt, one of the gifts from king Ban. “Just look at this Merlin, look how all those tiny rings are so carefully riveted together. Look, it’s a 6-on-1, I’d like to see the arrow that can pierce through this. The workmanship is quite extraordinary!”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin said a trifle bored. He never had been able to understand Arthur’s fascination with armour. “Don’t you have enough mail shirts by now?”

“You can never have enough mail shirts Merlin.”

“And I suppose I’ll be the one to polish it?”

“Each and every ring Merlin. And don’t forget to polish the sides of the rivets too, they do tend to get rusty.”

“Try and don’t get it wet then, don’t go swimming in it.”

“Are you trying to be clever with me Merlin?”

“I wouldn’t dare, Sire.”

“Yes you would. Just look at those rings sparkle, this is the most beautiful mail shirt I’ve ever seen! I’ll wear it at the feast tonight. Come on Merlin, don’t stand there, help me get dressed.”

“How about a bath first, you smell like a horse.”

“MERLIN!”

“Fine, have it your way. But don’t be surprised if nobody wants to sit near you.”

 

That night hundreds of candles were lit in the Banqueting Hall of Camelot, setting the armour and mail shirts of the knights in a dazzling golden glow, and the numerous semi-precious stones on Gwens purple gown and crown made her the radiant centre of attention.

Great laughter erupted from the table were Gwaine, Leon and Percival were sitting.

“Another wager? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the last one?” Leon said, clapping Gwaine quite energetically his shoulder.

For once Gwaine didn’t answer. There was not a day he didn’t think about it, that ill-fated wager he made not so long ago with Sir Vert of Sinople, that strange knight who had wanted Gwaine to chop off his head. Gwaine only scared him of course, but then the knight actually detached his head from his shoulders, creating quite a stir. “A head for a head,” the wager was, and Gwaine was in danger of losing his head also one day when he and Sir Vert would meet. And meet they will, Sir Vert had solemnly promised before he rode away from Camelot, his head under his arm.

“Lost your tongue?” Percival laughed, “better than losing you head I reckon!” Gwaine emptied a goblet of ale over Percival’s head. “Hey, that’s good ale that, don’t go wasting it!”

Quickly the goblets were filled once more and the three friends were all but rolling on the floor laughing.

At another table Galahad sat, a perpetual scowl on his face and hardly talking to the other knights at all.

 

*  *  *

 

In his chambers Arthur was struggling to get his mail shirt off. He stood there, head almost touching the floor, but the mail shirt would not glide from his torso.

“Come on Merlin,” he said with a muffled voice, “how about some help.”

“Sire,” Merlin said, eyes half closed, stifling a yawn but failing miserably.

He took the mail shirt at the neck opening and pulled. Nothing.

“Please allow me, Sire,” said George who had crept silently into the room. Delicately he pulled, but the mail shirt would not budge. George looked puzzled and said: “I fail to understand this, Sire. There seems to be a slight problem.”

“Will you get this confounded mail shirt off me!” Arthur said agitated, raising his voice.

Merlin and George were pulling together now, but to no avail.

“Like it’s fused to your gambeson, Sire,” Merlin said.

“Then why can’t I take my gambeson off too,” Arthur said, fear creeping into his voice, “and it’s starting to itch!”

“You should have taken that bath earlier like I told you,” Merlin said, looked at Arthur’s neck and saw red welts, big and ugly, emerging. “This is not normal,” he thought. He concentrated and saw an aura of evil magic surrounding the mail shirt, very faint, but it was unmistakably there.

Arthur started scratching himself vigorously now.

“I must strongly advise against that, Sire,” George said, “It will only make things worse.”

“I know!” shouted Arthur, “now, get the blacksmith in here NOW and tell him to bring his tongs and… and whatever else he can find!

“But it’s night and…” George protested.

“I don’t care if he’s awake or asleep or whatever. Get! Him! NOW!”

 

Henry the blacksmith used all his strength trying to cut through the rings, using the weight of his whole huge body. There was a loud metallic snap and a huge grin appeared on Arthur’s red face, thinking the rings were cut.

“I’m so sorry, Sire,” Henry said and he showed Arthur the broken tongs. The rings of the mail shirt appeared to be undamaged, there was not the tiniest dent in them, not even a scratch. “These are the biggest tongs I have. Had…,” he added apologetically. Arthur just looked at it, hardly taken in what just happened.

“Perhaps if we were to heat the rings to make them more pliable,” suggested George.

“What! Are you trying to roast me, you fool?”

“Please forgive me, Sire, my only thought is with your welfare, I did not give full consideration to the implications this idea might have.”

“Go and get Gaius will you. This itching is killing me.”

 

It did not take long for Gaius to appear. He looked at Arthur’s neck, tried unsuccessfully to shift some of mail and slowly shook his head. “I fear there is sorcery involved, Sire,” he said gravely.

“Sorcery! That’s just great! When will we ever get rid of it! And what about this infernal inching! Any ideas how to get rid of that?”

“I must consult my books first, Sire, trying to find out what type of sorcery it is that caused this mail shirt to cling to you,” Gaius said, “and I can prepare an ointment for your itch to ease your discomfort, and I must find a way to apply it. In the meantime, I think it would be best if you immersed yourself in a warm bath. It will bring some relieve I’m sure.”

“I’ll see to it right away,” said George.

“I’ll go with Gaius,” Merlin said to Arthur and added: “Are you sure you’re not doing this on purpose, to get your mail shirt wet so I must polish each and every ring?”  He ducked just in time and the goblet Arthur threw at him clattered loudly to the floor.

 

“Can you do something about that magic?” Gaius asked.

“Yes, I think so, I felt the magic, it feels familiar, but I need Arthur to be unconscious. Can’t have him awake while I perform my magic.”

“No, that would be most unwise. I’ll put a little extra something in his ointment, something that will make him sleep for an hour or so. Apply a little bit on a welt in his neck, that will do the trick. But do stay with him, he will fall asleep almost instantly.”

A short while later Merlin walked to Arthur’s chambers, carrying a jar filled with foul-smelling salve.

 

Next time on “Merlin, the adventures continue…”: will Merlin be able to remove Arthur’s mail shirt and will the scroll finally reveal its secret?

 

(Words on the scroll taken from the Anglo-Saxon poem _The Dream of the Rood_ )


	8. Faith, sir, you need not fear

 

Arthur was scratching like crazy, his contorted face mirroring the continuous pain he felt all over his torso and arms. Tears were in his eyes, his fingers and neck red with blood, and the itching and pain only got worse and worse.

“Merlin, what is that foul-smelling stuff?” Arthur exclaimed, his voice hoarse, as Merlin entered his chambers. “It smells like it came straight from the stables!”

“Just a little something to ease your suffering,” Merlin answered lightly. With great self-control he tried to keep his composure as he saw Arthur in this state. It was much worse than he imagined, so much worse.

“And you are going to smear that stuff all over me?”

“Just your neck first, see if it works.”

“If it works? IF it works? And how do you propose to get to the rest of my body,” said Arthur tensely as he started scratching furiously again.

“Well…,” Merlin said, hiding a smile, “Gaius thought we might use the bellows to…”

“WHAT,” Arthur shouted, “Bellows? Are you insane?”

“No, but with all that scratching _you_ soon will be. Sire.”

Arthur heaved a deep sigh. Merlin was right of course, he would do anything to get rid of that terrible itching, the continuous and unbearable pain driving him mad.

“If you would just sit down Sire, I’ll apply some of this ointment to the welts on your neck,” Merlin said and gently pushed Arthur onto a chair. He looked at the welts, they were even bigger now and oozing with pus mixed with blood. Merlin didn’t want to think and imagine how the rest of Arthur’s body would look like. Gently he applied some of the ointment on a few welts and almost instantly Arthur’s eyes started to close. “What have you…” he managed to say before he fell soundly asleep.

“Right,” Merlin said, putting aside the ointment, “now let’s try and get that mail shirt off first.”

He closed his eyes, emptied his mind and concentrated. He felt the evil magic from the mail shirt entering his mind and he shuddered. It was cold, so very cold and filled with such deep hatred… From deep within he felt the ancient magic stirring and awakening, he felt spells forming, he felt the clash between his own magic and the evil magic; his mouth formed words and with a deep voice he spoke:

_Byrne forgyrden breost_

_Fram heafod to fot_

_Ic þu abreotan_

_Wesan nu dead_

His eyes turned golden, his outstretched hand tingled and he could almost see the magic flowing from his body to the mail shirt, he could almost see the magical battle raging within him and around him and Arthur. Then it was all over. Exhausted he stood there, breathing deeply. He saw how the mail shirt had lost its sparkle, it looked dull and dead now. Carefully he tried to lift one of the sleeves and he felt immense relief as it moved. The mail shirt was no longer fused to Arthur’s body.

“You, boy,” he said as he saw one of the kitchen boys walk in the corridor, “can you help me please? You’re Cerdic aren’t you?”

The boy nodded.

“Good, help me to get this mail shirt off. King Arthur has fainted from exhaustion and he needs some air.”

It was not long before Arthur was freed from that cursed mail shirt. Even if Cerdic saw the welts on Arthur’s body, he didn’t let know he had and Merlin at this point really didn’t care.

“Will you go to Gaius and tell him… Oh, you can’t speak, I forgot. Take this…,” and Merlin scribbled some words on a piece of parchment, asking for ointment without the sleeping potion, “take this to Gaius and please hurry.”

Cerdic nodded and started to run.

Carefully Merlin unbuckled Arthur’s gambeson and opened it, revealing a chest with more open wounds than Merlin was prepared to see. Blood flowed slowly from the numerous open welts, raw and ragged from scratching. He shut his eyes for a moment and gagged involuntarily.

Not long after Gaius entered the chamber, panting and breathing heavily from an unaccustomed run. Together they removed Arthur’s gambeson and gently they lowered him onto the floor. With great care Merlin started to wash Arthur’s upper body, staining the floor red.

“I need to find out what sort of poison it is on that mail shirt,” Gaius said, “I might find a cure.”

“No,” Merlin answered, “it was no ordinary poison, it was magic,” and he laid his hands on Arthur’s chest, closed his eyes and concentrated. Again he felt something deep within him, a magical power he had never felt before and he saw threads of magic searching for the evil magic killing Arthur. He started sweating and trembling, but he never wavered and kept going. Then, with an almost unearthly scream, he fell down. “I think I did it,” he whispered, “I think the evil in him is gone.”

Arthur still lay there, unmoving but breathing easier now and slowly the welts stopped bleeding.

“I think we’d better get him on his bed,” Gaius said.

“Yes.”

Gaius spread the calming ointment on Arthur’s back and they laid him down on a thick and soft sheepskin.

“All that’s left now is wait until he wakes up,” Merlin said, “and I’d better clean all that blood from the floor. I can hear Arthur already…” and Merlin started giggling and, mimicking Arthur’s voice he said, ”Merlin, you useless toad, are you going to clean that or shall I just use your hair as a mop?” And both couldn’t stop laughing for a long time, the unbearable tension had finally broken.

 

*   *   *

 

And as the mail shirt lost its magic, Macha felt a jolt through her body and she knew something had gone wrong. She howled and howled and threw jug after jug against the wall.

A voice in her head spoke: “Mistress Macha, this is your loyal servant Cerdic speaking. I have just come back from King Arthur’s chambers and I have seen how Merlin took the mail shirt off of King Arthur. You told me it could not be done and you asked me to keep an eye on King Arthur and I had to fetch Gaius the Court Physician and through the keyhole in the door I could see how Merlin performed some ritual but then I had to run because Gaius came and I cannot be seen looking through the keyhole of King Arthur’s chambers and that is all I know for now.”

“Thank you Cerdic, you’ve been a great help and remember: when mistress Morgana is queen of Camelot, I will not forget what you have done for me, for us,” and with these words Macha closed her mind for Cerdic. “I hate you, I hate you,  I HATE YOU,” she screamed and a bowl was thrown to pieces, joining the pile of broken crockery already on the floor. “You little piece of vermin, I will get my revenge, you hear, REVENGE!”

And deep inside Macha’s brain Morgana heard it all and laughed.

 

*   *   *

 

“Upon my honour, honourable sirs, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. It was not us that put poison on that mail shirt, pray believe us,” said Brunric the envoy in a pleading voice, leaning over to Gwaine to emphasize his words, opening his hands in a gesture which said: see, we conceal nothing from you. His companions Rocbert and Osric nodded in agreement as they looked at Gwaine, Leon and Mordred sitting opposite of them, looking stern and unbending.

Earlier that day they were taken from their chambers and escorted to a room high up in the towers of Camelot. Guards stood by the door, preventing anyone from entering or leaving.

“Did you ever leave the cart out of your sight?” Leon asked.

“Of course we had to sleep, honorable sir, but the cart was always behind locked doors at night and one of us always stood guard. There were precious gifts on that cart you know!”

“So you say…,” Gwaine said.

“There was one thing,” Rocbert said, “just before we reached Camelot, there was a sudden gust of wind. We didn’t think much of it, but is felt strange, a little disoriented even.”

“Morgana,” Mordred thought, “that sounds just like Morgana. So she is here after all. I wonder…,” but he kept silent for the moment, waiting, perhaps Brunric would tell them more.

“Until we know more, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here. You will of course be treated according to your rank, but you can’t talk to anyone except us, nor leave this room.”

“We understand honorable sirs, but you must believe us. We would do nothing to jeopardize the excellent relations between King Ban and King Arthur, nothing!” Brunric said, raising his voice.

“I can feel nothing,” Mordred thought, “there is nothing in their minds that speaks of treason or killing Arthur. They are not involved,” and as the knights descended the narrow and winding staircase, Mordred voiced his opinion to Gwaine and Leon. “We’d better tell Arthur the moment he wakes up,” they said.

 

*   *   *

 

That night Merlin dragged a straw mattress and some blankets into Arthur’s chambers. He didn’t want to leave Arthur’s side, in case he should wake up. Merlin looked again at Arthur’s chest and to his relief he saw the welts slowly getting smaller, he saw the skin had started to heal itself. There was no more magic to be found. Leon had ordered the mail shirt to be put in the Vaults of Camelot where it could do no more harm. He blew out the candles and let himself fall on his mattress, but no matter how exhausted he was, he kept tossing and turning, and sleep would not come. Too many things were going through his head, and on the ceiling he saw red and bloody welts appearing and they were growing; pulsating and growing until the whole room seemed filled with them. Merlin felt a pressure on his chest, breathing became difficult and then he was wide awake, sweating and panting and unable to move. The room looked as it always did, and he heard Arthur breathing peacefully. For a moment he felt scared, afraid he might again have been subjected to a deep and fateful sleep he had experienced not so long ago. Slowly his heart started beating more slowly and his breathing became normal again. “Always the same,” a voice said. Merlin whipped his head around. Nothing. “Typical, suffering from sleeping sickness and still unable to fall asleep at night.” From the darkness a shape came into view, an old man with long, white hair and an even longer beard and leaning on a staff. “You really don’t get it do you,” the man said in a mocking voice, “everything is in there…” and he rapped Merlin on the head, ”and what do you do with it? Nothing!” He came closer and now Merlin saw: it was his alter ego, Emrys. “Just use that brain of yours for a change, stop trying to understand and start reading! Oh please, don’t look so incredibly stupid! The scroll I mean, the scroll. Just start reading it, that’s all and stop being all clever for trying to analyze it. Use your head and use your heart!” And Emrys’ knuckles hammered again on Merlin’s head and then he awoke, a scream on his lips. There was of course no-one in the room, and Arthur still slept peacefully. “Too many nightmares for one night,” Merlin thought, scratching his head and he felt a bump as if someone had knocked him repeatedly on the head.

“Merlin,” came a sleepy voice, “why on earth are lying on the floor like that.”

“Arthur!” he exclaimed and a huge grin appeared on his face, “you’re awake!”

“How can anyone sleep with all that racket you’re making.” With difficulty Arthur tried to sit up. “What happened,” he asked.

“Well, I guess Gaius’ ointment worked,” Merlin answered vaguely.

“Yes…,” said Arthur and looked at his body. “The itching is gone. Merlin, what did really happen?” and his steel-blue eyes bored into Merlin’s, demanding an answer.

“It was the mail shirt king Ban gave you, Sire,” Merlin said, “there was… something wrong with it.”

“Yes Merlin, that part I already know, but what exactly was wrong with it and why did I fall so suddenly asleep just a moment ago!”

“It was poison we think. Gaius is trying to find an answer and Leon and Gwaine and Mordred are questioning the envoy and his men.” Very carefully Merlin avoided mentioning sorcery at this point, first Arthur had to get his strength back, he thought.

“King Ban? Poison? Why? Why would king Ban do such a thing? I thought we were allies!” Arthur was getting more and more upset, the thought of a loyal ally like king Ban conspiring against him was almost too much to bear.

“There may be lots of explanations,” Merlin said, and was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mordred entered, followed by Gaius.

“Sire,” Mordred said, “We have every reason to believe that king Ban, nor his envoy, knew anything of this. We questioned the envoy Brunric and his men, and they spoke of a strange feeling they had, a few moments before reaching Camelot, an unseen presence, they said, like a gust of wind. Besides, Brunric touched the mail shirt, and Merlin here did too, and they are not suffering, so I think it’s safe to say there was no poison, but…,” Mordred hesitated.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Sire,” chimed in Gaius, “If I may have a word, I have indeed not been able to detect any poison, but I fear there is another cause. The mail shirt was enchanted.”

“What!” exclaimed Arthur, “Are you sure?”

“It had all the signs of powerful magic, Sire.”

“And I’ve been told,” Mordred added, “that a sudden gust of wind and disorientation are tell-tale signs of sorcery, Sire.”

Arthur looked at them for a while, anger crept into his eyes and finally he whispered: “Morgana.” Nobody said a word, nor looked directly at Arthur. Merlin’s eyes widened and he gulped as Mordred’s words, and Arthur’s reaction, hit home. Just before he fell into that deep sleep and was plagued by continuous nightmares about Arthur dying, he had felt a sudden gust of wind. Now he understood. Morgana. It could only have been her. He shuddered and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. Morgana was still trying to usurp the throne of Camelot, and would stop at nothing!

“It must be her, I’m sure of it now,” Arthur continued, “it’s not the first time I’ve heard of her doing these things. Mordred, go to Sir Gaheris and let him assemble as many man as he can. She must be near Camelot. I don’t care how he does it, but tell him to find her, no matter what!” His jaw was clenched as he said this, mouth set in a thin, hard line; his eyes shone with a dangerous inner fire and his hand involuntarily touching the hilt of his sword.

“Please Sire, let me go too,” Mordred said.

“No,” Arthur answered,” I need you here.”

Mordred was visibly disappointed as he strode out of Arthur’s chambers in search of Sir Gaharis.

“Merlin,” he said, using his druid voice, “I truly want to do all I can to find her and stop her, so don’t start questioning my loyalties again.”

Merlin looked at him but said nothing, he still didn’t trust Mordred, he still didn’t know where his loyalties lie. _Arthur shall die by a druid’s hand._

 

That day Merlin finally found some time to try and read the scroll again. “Just read it,” Emrys had said in his dream, “just read it.” Easier said than done, casting those spells to cure Arthur had cost him just about all the energy he had left, and he felt so sleepy all of a sudden again. “I must…,” he mumbled, “I must read that scroll now,” and he drank half a jug of Gaius’ bitter potion, desperately trying to stay awake. He looked at it, and seemingly out of nowhere a few more lines of text appeared:

_An gebyrt of twegan dead_

_Infindan stan, rudu gelice blod_

_Hæle ofeslæp belute wiðinnan_

“Riddles and more riddles,” Merlin said despairingly, “for once I would like a straightforward answer! Just for once!”

“Let me see,” Gaius said as he looked over Merlin’s shoulder.

“One born from twice dead…” Merlin said, and softly he repeated that confounded sentence. “One born from twice dead…” For a moment he sat there like a statue, then his head turned slowly to Gaius’ and at the same time both loudly exclaimed: “GALAHAD!”

“Of course, how could I have been so blind,” Gaius said, thumping his hand on the table.

“The answer was here all the time, why couldn’t I see it? It is so simple. Lancelot died twice, and Galahad is his son!”

“What does the rest of it say,” Gaius asked, getting a bit impatient.

“Let’s see, it goes something like this now: One born from twice dead, shall find a stone that is red like blood, which will cure the sleep hidden within.”

“So, all Galahad has to do is find a red stone… sounds easy…,” Gaius said, doubt creeping into his voice. “Is there any more on that scroll?”

“No, that’s all. No, wait, look, this is amazing! Look!” And both saw line after line appear on the parchment, all beautifully written in bold yet elegant letters, “There is something here that talks of a quest and don’t try to find it, it will find you, and here it says---”

“Merlin, line by line please, and from the beginning if you please!”

And so they read the whole epistle as it appeared on the parchment. They were to travel to a castle where a king was created (“I think it says something like that, Gaius,” Merlin said, “cyning macian.” “Doesn’t that mean magic?” Gaius answered, unthinkingly, for he was schooled in the ancient language and should know its meaning, but in the excitement he simply seemed to forget. “No,” Merlin said absent-mindedly, eyes glued to the parchment, “that’s drycræft.”), and many more tantalizing hints and obscure lines were written literally before their eyes.

“We must tell Arthur, he must let us go on that quest, find that stone and then I’ll come back all healed and ready to take up my duties again! Poor Arthur, George is driving him crazy, he’ll be glad to be rid of him, come…” and Merlin rushed to the door.

“Merlin!” came Gaius’ voice, “wait just a minute. Just how are you going to do this? You have hardly any stamina left, you fall asleep where you stand, and do you know where it is you’re going exactly?”

“No, but…”

“Merlin, first we need to know where you have to go. Then we must convince Galahad to come, do you really think he’ll go just like that?”

“No, but…”

“Raising objections again are we, Merlin?”

“Arthur!”

“Sire,” Gaius said, a little more dignified.

“I’ve got the answer, all you have to do---”

“All I have to do? Are you giving me orders again Merlin?”

“Somebody has to.”

“Merlin…,” Arthur said with a dangerously friendly voice.

“Perhaps it would be better if we started from the beginning, Sire,” Gaius quickly proposed.

“Good, finally someone who actually has a working brain. I’ll see you in half an hour in my chambers. First I have to talk to envoy Brunric.”

 

And so Arthur was told the whole story. He sat there, motionless, thinking.

“Galahad,” he disbelievingly said, “are you sure?”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin said, “Absolutely sure.”

“Then there is only one option. We must find that stone so you can be cured. Having you around is slightly better than boring George, although he makes a killer breakfast, cleans my clothes and polishes my armour without me telling him to, he cleans my chambers and gently wakes me up in the morning.”

“And you’re hating every minute of it, I’m sure.”

“Don’t get smart with me Merlin. I’ve decided to take Galahad on a quest. He wants to be a knight of Camelot, so he’d better start earning that privilege. He might even become a likable person, what do you think?”

“Well, you turned out to be a nice person in the end, more or less…”

“Thank you Merlin…”

“But we still don’t know where to go first, Sire,” Gaius said, “The road may be long and full of dangers. Are you sure you want to come Sire, isn’t your place here in Camelot?”

“Gaius, sometimes I’m really fed up with this life, day after day I listen to endless complaints, and innumerable toadying envoys to see. This is my chance to go out and have some fun! So yes Gaius, I’m going. Gwen is perfectly capable to rule Camelot and she’ll have competent advisors. And I think I’ll take Gwaine, Leon and Percival also. And you Gaius, you must come too.”

“But I’m far too old to travel, my old bones will be nothing but a hindrance to you, Sire.” Fear crept in his voice and involuntarily he took a step back.

“Nonsense. Besides, I need someone to look after Merlin here. Don’t expect me to hold his hand every time he falls asleep.”

Gaius was getting really upset now. He, an old and worn out man, going on a quest? A dangerous quest even. He was afraid this might be his final journey, afraid he might not return to Camelot alive. He bowed and before he could give an answer, Arthur gave it for him: “Good, that’s settled then. We’ll leave the day after tomorrow.”

“We haven’t quite figured out where we must travel to, Sire, in order to find that stone,” Gaius said rather gloomy.

“I think I’ve figured that one out,” Arthur said softly, “it’s all there, on that scroll. First we must travel to Tintagel.”

 

That night Gwaine, Leon and Percival were filling their goblets with mead and their spirits rose higher and higher at the prospect of an adventure. They had laughed and laughed when Arthur told them it was to be Galahad’s quest, finding a cure for Merlin was entirely in his hands. “He can hardly hold a sword in his hands properly,” they said and laughed even more.

Gaius sat in his chambers, thinking all kinds of gloomy thoughts and the knot in his stomach grew tighter every second. The prospect of this quest was a daunting one indeed.

Galahad sat in his chambers, dumbfounded. King Arthur had chosen him to go on a quest to save the life of that useless serving boy of his. Arthur had told him of the prophesy; only he who was born from one who had died twice, could accomplice it. If the quest was successful, he was to be made a knight of Camelot, like his father before him. Already his heart filled with pride, not for the thought of saving Merlin, bur for becoming a knight of Camelot.


	9. Open-eyed conspiracy

 

“I told you,” the Spirit said, head cocked slightly to one side, a smile on his lips, “that you would find that ancient magic deep within you.”

“Where am I?” Merlin whispered. The whole environment was hazy, like he was engulfed in thick clouds, everything looked white and he felt so terribly tired and sleepy.

“How does it feel now?” the Spirit asked, not bothering to answer Merlin’s question. “How does it feel to have all that magical power. Be proud, friend Emrys, be proud of your great achievement! You’ve managed to unlocked all that ancient magic deep within you and believe me, you are going to need it.”

“Please, what is this place,” pleaded Merlin, feeling dizzy and disoriented now.

“Ah, but of course, how rude of me, please forgive me. You’re in my world now, Emrys. Well, almost that is, you are in the equivalent of your courtyard. But do not worry, I will sent you back in due time. I just needed to know if you are strong enough for the greatest challenge you will soon have to face.” His whole demeanor was grave now, the red around his eyes in stark contrast with the whiteness of his skin, eyes that looked unblinkingly at Merlin.

“What are you talking about.”

“Through my art I foresee the danger that you, my friend, are in… All will be revealed to you when the time of revealing will make itself known. I wish I could say that I didn’t know, but then I would be lying, wouldn’t I. Great events are about to unfold, events that could mean the difference between life and death. But, my dear Emrys, you can hardly do anything sleeping standing up like this. Your sleeping spell must be counteracted first, but that task is out of your hands now. You have done your part, now it is Galahad’s turn. You must place your trust in him, however difficult that may be, for if he fails, Camelot is doomed and so are you. ” Merlin felt himself drawn further and further into those black and still unblinking eyes. “trust, Emrys, trust… Remember Morgana…” Fog patches now floated between Merlin and the Spirit and there stood Kilgharrah, looking at Merlin with black unblinking eyes: “Trust, young warlock, trust is a fine thing, but it can also be a dangerous thing, remember Morgana? I have warned you before about that witch and look at her now, she is doing everything she can to kill you and Arthur. And heed my words, young warlock, do not trust that druid boy either… And now you’re asked to trust that insufferable prat, do not trust…” and slowly Kilgharrah started to dissolve in the mist and there Balinor stood: “Trust in yourself, my son, trust in yourself…” and before Merlin could say anything, Balinor too was gone. Nothing but mist remained, mist like a cold and wet blanket. Merlin started walking, for in the distance he could see lights, very faint and blurry, but lights none the less, warm and welcoming lights. After walking what seemed like hours, he could discern a shape; a castle, a castle not unlike Camelot. He took one weary step after another, but the castle would not come nearer. Tears welled up in his eyes and exhausted he fell to the ground, unable to take another step. He saw faces hovering above him and around him, faces like wispy clouds, and they all looked like the Spirit, like Balinor, like Kilgharrah. He saw Arthur lying in a pool of blood and Mordred standing over him, laughing, his sword dripping with blood. He saw Morgana, sneering as she looked with contempt at Arthur, and then she took Arthur’s bloodied crown and put it on her own head. “Kill the witch… kill the witch…,” he heard in the distance, like a whisper on the wind, “kill the witch… kill the druid boy…” and he felt himself falling. Falling and falling into a deep chasm and his world turned black.

“Merlin…” whispered the voices in unison, “Merlin…, and Merlin opened his eyes, but he saw nothing but impenetrable darkness. He didn’t even know if he was sitting or standing of still falling. There was nothing. “Merlin…” Again the voices, urgent now, all those voices merging into one. It sounded familiar, that voice… “Merlin, wake up, Merlin…” Gaius! It was Gaius’ voice. “Merlin…” No, Percival’s voice. Or was it Gwen’s? Silence again. “Merlin!” Endlessly the voices vibrated, making his head throb. He tried to cover his ears, but the voices were still there, inside his head, screaming now. “Be quiet,” he tried to shout, but he didn’t know if he said it out loud or if it only sounded in his head. “Merlin!!!” and his eyes flew open and he saw the blurry face of Gaius hovering above him. More shapes, familiar shapes, appeared: Percival, Gwen. “You’re awake,” he heard and Gaius’ face slowly came into focus. He tried to speak, but no sound came. “Easy now,” he heard a disembodied voice say, far-away. “A bed, I’m lying in a bed,” he thought. “How about a bucket of nice, cold water to wake you up,” said another voice. “Yes please, I’d like some water,” he wanted to say, but again no sound escaped his lips. He opened his eyes again and there was a new face which looked like Arthur. “Arthur,” he croaked and he saw Arthur’s face break out in a smile, and the he saw Gaius and Percival and Gwen smile too. Gwen offered him a beaker and greedily he drank the cool water. Slowly the world came into focus. “What happened?” he managed to say and tried to sit up.

“You’ve been asleep for over three days, Merlin, we were worried sick you may not wake up this time. You simply crashed to the floor right after healing Arthur.”

Three days, he thought, three whole days. He heaved a deep sigh. Just as they were going on a quest to find the cure, the sleeping spell had tried to stop him and had almost succeeded too. His eyelids were so heavy, but he wanted desperately to stay awake. “Drink this,” Gaius said and Merlin grimaced as he tasted that bitter potion again. “I’ve put some other herbs in it as well, herbs to keep you awake.”

“I’m hungry,” Merlin said after a short while.

“Oh, and by the way,” Arthur said, “tomorrow we ride to Tintagel. You’d better be ready, Merlin.”

“Yeah, I’ll try and have a good night’s sleep then,” he retorted. He did not see the immense relief on Arthur’s face.

 

The cave was a mess, a wooden stool lay broken in one corner, the table was thrown to one side, its contents strewn all over the floor, broken pottery everywhere. In another corner lay Morgana, deathly pale and unmoving, the only sign of life an almost imperceptible rising and falling of her breast. Macha was furious, but destroying her cave did not help to make her feel better, far from it. “Thwarted again,” she hissed, and another jug fell victim to her excessive rage, “that insignificant little king is still alive and that fathead of a Merlin is still on his feet!” She kicked the upturned table and howled in pain as she felt her toes break from the impact. While inside Morgana’s head she had heard nothing but sarcastic laughter and that continuous whisper: “even you can’t kill them, you lousy excuse for a goddess”.

Safely in her cave, she had let her essence flow back into her own body, leaving Morgana nothing but an exhausted husk. After a while colour came back to Morgana’s cheeks and her eyelids fluttered. She opened her mouth to speak, but Macha thundered “Silence!” and once again Morgana’s tongue was fused to her palate, no sound escaped her snarling lips. Furious, she rose from her pallet and walked outside to get some fresh air. She had tried to run away a few times, but no matter how far she ran, no matter what direction she took, she always ended up near the cave. She truly was a captive here, captive in both body and soul. For now, her only hope of escape was that eventually Macha would let her go, set her free to rule Camelot; but she had read Macha’s mind, she knew Macha wanted to rule Camelot too, meaning she would stay trapped in her mind forever or she could simply kill her, using only her body and voice. Plan after cunning plan she made, waiting for an opportunity to strike and escape this horrible prison. From deep within the cave she heard laughter, a shrill and inhuman sound, utterly insane. Morgana covered her ears to try and block the piercing sound, but to no avail. “Come back you numbskull,” she heard in her head and her feet started walking towards the cave, whether she liked it or not. “It’s time to think big,” Macha said, a look of utter madness gleamed in her eyes. Her gnarled fingers took Morgana’s head in their grip and Morgana felt Macha being sucked into her mind once more. Macha’s now soulless body fell amidst the broken pottery and she left it lying there, like a forgotten and discarded rag-doll, as she left the cave and dissolved in the mist, only to reappear in the woods near Camelot.

There she sat down, unseen by any who would pass, for she had made herself look like a part of the tree-trunk, brown and gnarled, and she concentrated. It was not long before her thoughts reached out and touched the mind of king Maleagant of the Saxons in the south, and of king Peredur from the kingdom of Kent, and a few other kings too; and she planted in those minds a deep hatred for Arthur, and a longing for conquering Camelot, for such was the immense power of Macha. Exhausted she fell into a deep slumber, and did not see Arthur and his entourage leaving Camelot.

 

Preparations for the Quest for the Stone, as the knights now called it, were in full swing. Percival, Gwaine and Leon were polishing their armour, mending their mail shirts and sharpening their swords; and also making sure their tinder-boxes would not get wet, even in a downpour, and pouring beeswax into their leather water bottles, making a waterproof lining so they would not leak. They loaded their saddle-bags with everything they might need for such a long and dangerous journey.

For Gaius they had selected an easygoing horse with a nice, even gait; and Arthur gave him a saddle with a high backrest, so he might travel as comfortable as possible. For a whole day Gaius had been grouchy and fussing, running around and piling all kinds of things on the table: books of herb lore and magical creatures, potions for just about everything, herbs, plants and even more books. “Mustn’t forget this,” he mumbled, “definitely mustn’t forget that,” and a whole stack of implements joined the ever increasing heap. “Don’t just stand there, I could use some help here,” he said grumbling to Merlin and he had loaded his arms with numerous jars of potions.

“You can’t take all of that,” Merlin had said, “there aren’t that many horses to carry it all.”

“Then you must carry some of it too! And why aren’t you packing? It’s a long trip you know, a very long trip! Oh, I forgot! Blankets. We need blankets too, and cloaks and tunics…” and Gaius hurried to the wardrobe, leaving Merlin standing there, arms loaded with jars.

“What’s all this,” came Arthur’s voice, “Gaius, are you moving to another chamber?”

“Sire,” and Gaius made a slight and quick bow, “No Sire, it’s just a few things I might need for the journey.”

“A few? A FEW?”

“Yes Sire, I… I…”

“Gaius,” said Arthur, his voice gentle, and, sensing Gaius’ distress he laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder, “we really must travel light, taking all this with us will slow us down, and the slower we travel, the longer Merlin will be in peril, and…” Arthur did not finish his sentence and let the implications hovering in the air.

Gaius nodded, Arthur’s words had hit home. “I might just take these…,” and he took a bag of the dark brown beans to make the potion to keep Merlin awake, “and perhaps these…” His voice trailed away, not quite knowing what to do anymore.

 

Galahad, for these past few days, had been his usual charming self: bullying servants and squires, demanding a seat closest to Arthur’s in the Banqueting Hall (but not getting it) and generally acting as if he owned Camelot and everybody in it. He was shocked to find Merlin in such a deep coma and thought: “I hope he does get better, for if not, my whole quest is in jeopardy and I will not be made Knight of Camelot”. His armour was no longer as pristine as it was the day he came, it had received numerous dents and scratches from all the beatings the knights had given him, but he never wavered and had met each exercise with the same attitude: I am going to win for I am the best! The knights were fed up with his arrogance, making plans to put him in his place once and for all. “Be careful,” Arthur had said to them, “we need him to complete this quest first”, and so the knights waited.

And now Galahad was ready for his quest, his heavily dented armour polished to perfection, a task which had taken George hours to finish. “I am ready, my liege,” he proclaimed loudly, “ready to go on this most perilous quest and to find that stone.” At these words he kneeled in front of Arthur, as if expecting to be knighted there and then.

“Let’s not dally then,” Arthur said and he led his horse to the main gate. Gwaine, Percival, Leon, Mordred, Gaius and Merlin followed, and finally Galahad who had some trouble getting on his horse. The Quest for the Stone had finally begun.

 

They had been riding steadily for days now, and sleeping under the stars at night, but Arthur saw Gaius needed a rest; his face was ashen with fatigue and he sat slumped in the saddle, all but falling off, so they halted at an inn in a small village to get food and a good night’s sleep.

That evening, as they sat in the common room, laughing and filling their bellies with hot food and cold ale, they noticed the villagers kept staring at them with a mixture of concern and fear.

“Excuse me,” Arthur, in his commanding tone, said to one of them, “pray tell me why you keep looking at us like that. Although we are in arms, we mean you no harm.”

“Visitors we do not get too often around these here parts, especially such a great and wise man as yourself (and he nodded respectfully at Gaius) and we understand you need protection,” the man said gloomily, “but when visitors come, they leave through the woods and then they ne’er come back, and we understand you will be going there too.”

“And why is that, why don’t they come back?”

“Stay clear of yonder forest,” the man whispered as he leaned close to Arthur, “for there the green giant resides.”

“A green giant?” Arthur exclaimed loudly and Gwaine knocked over his mug of ale.

“Hush, ye fool, do not speak of him in such a loud voice lest he should hear you.” The man was visibly afraid now and he took a large swig of ale, to try and calm his nerves.

“Green giant?” Gwaine asked, and a slight tremble had crept into his voice.

“Aye, as tall as a tree and strong as twenty oxen he be, and a good sword-length taller than ye,” and the man pointed at Percival, “and it cuts through anythin’,” and his hand thumped on the table, upsetting the beakers of ale. Gwaine gave a stifled cry. “Do not go to yonder forest, fair sirs, do not go, for ‘tis aptly named the Forest of No Return and no mistake,” and he fell silent, refusing to say another word. A few of the locals looked at them with great pity in their eyes.

The knights looked uneasy at each other, all of them remembering that fateful night when a green-clad knight had come to Camelot, making a wager with Gwaine. They all saw him lift his head from his shoulders and heard his promise that Gwaine would see him again, and now Gwaine stood the very real chance of losing his head, for such was the wager they made. An uncomfortable silence descended upon their table. Not long afterwards they retired to their rooms, but sleep did not come easy.

 

The next morning their good spirits were back. They saddled their horses, bade the innkeeper good day and swiftly rode away, straight to the Forest of no Return.

“If we encounter that green giant, we’ll find a way to solve it,” Percival said jokingly, “two heads are better than one.”

“Yes,” chimed in Leon, “don’t lose your head over a little thing like this.”

Gwaine merely scowled.

“Did you have a good night’s sleep, Gaius?” Leon asked.

“Quite well, thank you,” he answered, “my old bones are grateful for a soft bed after those nights sleeping on the ground.”

“Well, you’re lucky to have a few sheep-skins to sleep on,” Leon said, smiling. Gaius smiled back. He was really grateful for those soft and warm sheep-skins. “Do you realize,” he said, “that Galahad has been wearing his heavy armour the whole time since we left Camelot and he is still sitting straight in the saddle? I think under all that arrogance lives a boy who is very insecure, but with a great will-power.”

“Yes,” Leon answered, “I agree, he does show character. But we have to get that arrogance out of him sooner or later.”

“By making him ride his horse backwards, like you did with Mordred?”

“No, we have much better ideas, and if he still doesn’t change, he won’t survive long as a Knight of Camelot. He’s not exactly making friends, you know.  I’ve even seen George winch, and that’s saying a lot.”

 

“Forest of no Return,” Arthur proclaimed, as they had reached the edge of the forest in the early hours of the afternoon, “Nonsense, we have no wish to return, all we want is to go through.” Gwaine nodded and threw away his half-eaten apple. There was a small path, leading into what looked like a small and dark tunnel meandering between those huge and ancient trees. Arthur raised his hand. They all moved into the woods and instantly found themselves engulfed by giant trees, their gnarled branches all seeming to intertwine, the roots making the path a treacherous going. The foliage above them was one enormous green blanket, and the little sunlight that was able to penetrate the green canopy cast long shadows, turning the branches into giant black claws, silently beckoning… Everything was green now, a sickly emerald green. The horses were jittery and the knights tried to calm them, but they themselves were feeling edgy too and their horses felt that. Even Galahad was subdued. Leon started humming a cheerful tune, and soon the others joined in, but somehow it made them even more agitated so they kept silent again. There was not a puff of wind to be felt, no bird twittering, no insect buzzing, no leaf rustling, even their mail shirts hardly made that familiar rattling sound anymore. Behind them they saw the trees intertwining, making one solid, impenetrable wall.

“Do you feel it,” Mordred said, using his druid voice.

“Yes,” Merlin answered, “there is great magic here.”

“We must keep ourselves alert, we must not let Arthur come to harm, or any of the other knights.”

“Or Gaius.”

“I tried to perform some magic, it didn’t work.” Mordred sounded anxious, tense.

“Great…,” Merlin replied, “just what we need.” He lowered his head and for a fraction of a second his eyes turned golden. “Same here. I tried to make a branch fall, it didn’t. The magic here is enormous.” Deep inside him he felt his new-found magic stirring and boiling, trying to match this strange and powerful magic that seemed to be everywhere around them.

“We must continue now,” came Arthur’s strained voice, “I know we’re almost there, we’re bound to be.”

And suddenly they found themselves in a clearing, a large, spacious meadow. At the far end stood a castle, its turrets shrouded in a sickly green mist, its drawbridge down, the gates open. The horses bowed their heads, sniffed at the grass, but refused to eat it. Even now everything was green, even the open sky and although it was still daytime, they could not see the sun. They proceeded cautiously towards the castle, but there was man nor beast to be seen.

“My name is Arthur King of Camelot. We come in peace, we are travelling through this wood to the east.”

“We ask your permission to enter the courtyard, so we can rest our horses and enjoy the pleasure of your hospitality.”

Still nothing.

“Only one way to find out if anyone’s there,” Gwaine said. Arthur nodded and slowly they rode to the gate. “Don’t draw your swords,” Arthur said, seeing Galahad with his blade in his hand and raising it above his head, “we don’t want to appear hostile.” Reluctantly Galahad sheathed his sword again, clearly he did not agree with Arthur’s decision.

“Right,” Gwaine mumbled, but made sure his sword would easily slide out of its scabbard. Percival and Leon did the same.

Arthur led his horse onto the drawbridge. The hooves made hollow and creepy sounds as the horses walked over it. Arthur looked up, but no heavy portcullis came crashing down, crushing both horse and rider.

“This place is bursting with magic,” Mordred said in his druid voice.

“Yes, I don’t like it,” answered Merlin.

“Me neither.”

“Hello!” yelled Arthur, “Anyone there?”

Still there was no sound to be heard, no movement to be seen. They all dismounted.

“Are you alright, Gaius,” Merlin asked as he helped the old physician from his horse.

“Every bone in my body aches,” he grumbled. “And did you notice,” he whispered, ”there is magic all around us.”

“Yes,” Merlin whispered back, “and I couldn’t use my magic in the woods, I don’t like it,” and he fell silent as Arthur came near, asking if Gaius was feeling well.

“Thank you Sire, yes, but I could do with a little rest.”

“Yes, of course, please rest while Merlin and I go to the great hall,” and he started to walk away. “Are you coming or not, Merlin, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Coming, Sire,” and they walked into the castle. Gwaine, Percival and Galahad went the other way, while Leon stayed with Gaius.

 

Merlin felt uneasy, he didn’t like it, not being able to use his magic. It has happened once before, some years ago, losing it: a creature had sucked all the magic out of him, leaving him totally defenseless. He needed to try again. Quickly he looked around, but Arthur was in the adjacent room, unable to see him. Very carefully he stretched his arm, spread his fingers and whispered a simple enchantment. Nothing happened, but before he could try anything else, he heard Arthur’s slightly mocking voice behind him: “I know you’re desperate to find a cure, Merlin, but do you really think you can do magic?”

Merlin’s heart skipped a few beats and quickly he turned around, stammering: “A-A-Arthur! You’re back. Me magic? No way! I was just… you know… looking…”

“Yes, Merlin. Looking at what exactly?”

“The wall. Lovely wall. No woodworm. Just think, me having magic… imagine, you are sitting there in Camelot, eating and feasting while I am working my fingers to the bone, and all I really have to do is click my fingers and mumble some spell, and your armour will clean itself, your laundry will wash itself... and I could just sit there, doing nothing.”

“So basically, exactly what you have been doing so well all those years, absolutely nothing.”

Merlin clicked his fingers and waved his arm around. “No, nothing’s happening. You’re still here.”

Arthur started laughing, squeezed Merlin’s shoulders, and said: “Dream on, Merlin,” and he thought: “poor Merlin, the strain is really getting to him now,” but, deep in the back of his mind it kept gnawing at him, it had all looked a bit too real. “There is something about you, Merlin…,” he thought.

 

“Ah, Sir Gwaine, how lovely to see you again. And Sir Leon, Sir Percival, welcome too. Magister Gaius. And I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting, sir knight,” and he turned to Galahad, “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am known as Sir Vert of Sinople, at your service.” Without warning, the green knight suddenly stood before them, beaming.

“My name, sir Vert of Sinople, is Galahad son of Lancelot, soon to be Knight of Camelot,” and he made a stiff and formal bow.

“Splendid, splendid! Ah, and our most hospitable king Arthur and… I’m sorry, I don’t seem to recall your name, my dear serving boy.”

Merlin opened his mouth, but Arthur cut him short. “I thought you’d be taller, but you’re still the same height as I remember” he said, looking at Sir Vert, his hand hovering over the grip of his sword.

“Those simple villagers, they tend to exaggerate, don’t they. Sir Gwaine, I told you we would meet again someday, are you ready to uphold your part of the wager we made?”

Gwaine kept silent, his mouth was dry and his heart was beating in his throat. Then he straightened, hooked a lock of his hair behind his ear and unblinkingly looked Sir Vert in the eyes. “I made a wager, Sir Vert, and a commitment. As a gentleman and Knight of Camelot I am bound to honour and uphold that commitment. I am ready, Sir Vert, I place myself at your mercy.”

“Good, good. But is has been a long and tiring journey for all of you. Please go to the great hall. There you will find everything you need for tonight: food, drink and comfortable beds. And for your horses there is fresh straw and oats in abundance. Rest well, especially you, Sir Gwaine.” And with those words the green knight bowed, lifted with one hand his head from his shoulders and left. A loud clanging was heard as Galahad fainted and fell to the ground.

 

The next morning everybody gathered in the courtyard and there they saw to their horror a chopping block, with a huge and razor-sharp axe leaning against it. The tension was almost visible, no-one spoke, they just stood there with a heavy heart and looking grim, waiting for the inevitable.

“Are you ready, Sir Gwaine,” came the voice of Sir Vert, and he stepped into view. Gwaine nodded, closed his eyes for a moment and said in a steady voice: “I am ready, Sir Vert of Sinople, I am ready to honour our agreement.”

“Good. Now if you would be so kind and place your head on the block if you please.”

Slowly Gwaine walked to the block, kneeled and put his head on its cool, smooth surface. He heard Sir Vert take up the axe and his only thought was the hope for a quick and painless ending. He heard a stifled cry from Merlin as the axe was raised, he heard a sword being drawn and Arthur’s muffled “no”. He heard his heart beating and the blood in his veins throbbing. He heard the axe swishing down, he felt the cold steel touching his neck and he felt warm blood trickling down, his blood. Then it was over.

“You are indeed a man of honour, Sir Gwaine” Sir Vert said, “should you have faltered, or proved to be a coward, I would without hesitation have chopped your head off. And you too,” he continued as he turned around, “you too have proved to be honourable and wise, for if that sword of yours, young Galahad, had left its scabbard, you too would have been killed. Sir Gwaine had made a promise, a commitment, and you all felt honour bound to respect that commitment, even if it meant for Sir Gwaine to lose his life. For that I grant you your life, Sir Gwaine. I have been given satisfaction, blood has been drawn. Please continue your journey. You will find your saddle bags filled with provisions.”

Suddenly Merlin and Mordred looked at each other as they heard the voice of Sir Vert in their heads: “And as for you, young warlocks or druids or whatever it is you call yourselves, your magic will return as soon as you have left this forest.”

They all mounted their horses, bade farewell to Sir Vert and quickly left that eerie place; and for a long time no one spoke.

 

“Camelot should be rightfully mine,” said king Maleagant of the Saxons, “Arthur has no right to the throne.”

“When Uther was alive there never was a chance to take Camelot, which is, after all, rightfully ours,” said king Peredur of Kent.

And so the kings began to make preparations for war.

 


	10. Upon your heads – Is nothing but heart’s sorrow

They had been riding for many days now, heading west to the coast of the kingdom of Cornwall, to castle Tintagel. The journey had been quite uneventful, apart from a few skirmishes with some renegades, the only thing really bothering them was the weather, and the closer they came to Tintagel, the worse it got. Their thick woolen capes were soaked and heavy with rain, their horses were plodding on with utter despondency, and a wizened Gaius kept shivering despite the two capes he wore, the outer one rubbed with beeswax to keep him as dry as possible. At night they all huddled under a tarpaulin; and they ate their food cold, or cooked on a struggling and sputtering fire.

Finally, after riding in a cold drizzle for days on end, they reached the coast of Cornwall and there, perched upon a jutting rock high above the sea, stood Tintagel, a massive, black shape outlined against a leaden sky. It was storming now, and foaming waves were crashing with great force upon the shore. There was only one path leading up to the entrance of the castle, a path strewn with sharp rocks and slippery seaweed. With the exception of Galahad, they all dismounted, took their horses by the reins and walked carefully over the path, hoping not to break a leg or worse, stumbling and falling into the churning sea and crashing on the rocks below. They heard Galahad’s horse whinnying as he tripped, but the horse managed to keep its balance. Galahad was not so lucky, he slipped from the saddle and landed unceremoniously in a pool of ice-cold water, his face mere inches from a giant jellyfish. A few feet more to the left and he would have fallen to a certain death. “Come here, you stupid animal,” he shouted at his frightened horse, took the reins and tried to mount again, a piece of seaweed still stuck on his helmet like a broken and mocking plume.

“Calm down, you moron. I’ve really had it with you, now stop mistreating your steed or I’ll kick you into the sea, quest or no quest!” Gwaine really was furious now, barely able to contain his anger. Percival just looked at Galahad, eyes burning with anger, his hands two huge balled fists, white at the knuckles, and Mordred had his hand hovering over the grip of his sword. Galahad sneered but said nothing, and with measured steps he followed the others, leading his horse by the reins. After a slow and perilous journey that seemed to last for hours, they finally reached the main gate, and not a moment too soon, for the sun was already setting.

Arthur knocked on the enormous wooden door, first with his gloved hand as there was no longer a knocker, then, as there was no answer, with the pommel of his sword. They all stood there shivering in the incessant rain, man and horse alike. At last they heard a sound, and slowly the heavy door opened wide enough for a face to be seen, the face of a haggard-looking woman.

“My name is Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot,” Arthur said in his most commanding voice and yet trying to sound friendly, “we ask for a place to sleep for tonight, so we can dry our clothes and rest our horses.” No need to tell a servant the real reason for being here, he thought and he held his hands in front of him, palms upwards, indicating they came in peace.

The woman just looked at them and ever so slowly the door opened, creaking on its rusty hinges. Finally the door opened wide enough for both men and horses to walk into the courtyard, where they found themselves stumbling over broken flagstones and discarded pieces of rusting and decaying armour. Not a soul was to be seen, no voice broke the eerie silence of the place.

“Forgive me, Arthur Pendragon King of Camelot, we do not get many visitors here these days,” the woman said with utter sadness in her voice. “Please, in yonder stables you may put your horses, and there, in the Great Hall, we will meet you when you are finished, and you are welcome to dry your clothes by the fire,” and her hand indicated vaguely to a peeling door that once must have been alive with bright colours.

“I don’t like this place,” Gwaine said under his breath.

“Me neither,” Mordred answered and nervously looked around the courtyard. The woman had gone.

They stabled their horses and rubbed them dry using the straw from the floor. As there were no oats in the rack, they fed the horses with whatever little they had left, hoping to refill their stock when they left. Galahad looked absolutely livid. “This is no way to treat a knight of Camelot,” he exclaimed, “and where are the stable boys, do these clodhoppers expect us to tend to our horses ourselves? HEY!!!,” he suddenly shouted across the courtyard, “you lazy louts, get over here now and rub down my horse!” and he looked around, expecting at any moment to see a stable boy come running to do his bidding.

“Galahad,” Leon shouted after him, “get in here and tend to your horse. Do you want it to get sick? We tend to our horses as they were our children. So come in here right now or you can crawl back to Camelot for all I care!”

Furiously Galahad looked at him. Leon looked back, unmoving and unblinking, and with ill grace Galahad started to rub down his horse.

 

Later that evening they all gathered in the Great Hall where a fire was blazing in the hearth. They all huddled close to the fire, warming their bodies and trying to dry their sodden clothes. Apart from the benches around the hearth and a trestle table by the wall, the room was bare and cold. The slits in the walls were uncovered, letting in wind and rain. They had not seen the serving woman since their first encounter. Percival and Leon did search for her, or anyone for that matter, but they did not find one living soul, nor did any of the rooms seem inhabited, although most of the rooms were locked. They ate the last of their black bread and cheese, and washed it down with cold water. And as the heat from the fire warmed their bones and dried their clothes, so did their good spirits return. Even Gaius managed a weak smile.

“This is not the Tintagel I know from stories,” Arthur said, “It is supposed to be a thriving and bustling castle, so where is everybody? And the whole place looks like a ruin.”

At that moment the door opened and the woman that had greeted them earlier entered, a jug in hand. Behind her shuffled an old man, bearing a tray laden with steaming bowls and empty plates. “Please forgive me for my absence,” she said, “but I thought you might like some nourishment, so I made you a stew.” The man put the bowls and plates on the table, then disappeared again.

“Please, eat and afterwards I will tell you the sad story of why Tintagel is in such a state. So, please eat, for you surely must be hungry and thirsty,” and with these words she left the hall.

Everybody filled their plates and started to eat the watery stew, chewing the stringy pieces of meat and overcooked vegetables. Galahad looked at it with disdain and put his bowl aside. “I’m not eating that, it’s not even fit for a pig,” he said.

“You’re not eating that?” Percival asked and without waiting for an answer he took Galahad’s bowl and wolfed it down in no time.

Arthur ate another spoonful and suddenly he remembered that, years ago, during a famine in Camelot, he had eaten a stew that had tasted exactly the same. A stew Merlin had made, a stew with cooked rat in it. He winched, but forced himself to eat. No need to tell the others. This could very well be the only food they got here, and a stomach full of rat is far better than a stomach full of nothing.

Not long afterwards the man came back, collected the bowls and plates and left, never saying a word, nor reacting to the knights’ questions.

“Please, kind Sirs, we have prepared a room for you so you may get some sleep. It is not much, but the straw is fresh and fragrant, and the blankets are warm and clean.” The woman stood by the door, beckoning. “Please, Arthur King of Camelot, please stay a while for I have a tale to tell, a tale for your ears alone,” she said softly, and a sad note crept into her voice. Arthur nodded. “And you, Merlin, you may sleep safely tonight, there will be no dreams to disturb you this night, as they have disturbed you so many nights now. As for you, venerable Gaius, do not fear, and rest your weary bones in peaceful slumber.”

They stood there, confused and uneasy at hearing these words, and all thought the same: why does this woman know these things, how does she know them. Slowly they walked into the dimly lit corridor, an uncomfortable feeling in their gut for leaving Arthur alone with her. “Sleep well,” Arthur said, “I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Sire,” they said and left the hall, and at the end of the corridor a door opened and they saw a few simple beds and flickering candles.

“Wait for me,” Galahad said impatiently as he followed the others, took a few steps and suddenly he found himself all alone.

 

“Do you know how you were born?” the woman asked without preamble the moment she and Arthur were alone.

Arthur looked at her, a puzzled look on his face. “Do I know your name?” he answered back.

“My name is Celise,” she said, “but my name is of no consequence. Please sit and answer my question, however strange it may sound to you. Do you know how you were born?”

“My mother died in childbirth, that is all I know,” Arthur said, not quite knowing how to react, and he felt a pang of sorrow in his heart. “That is all I know,” he added, whispering now.

“But you did see her some years ago, didn’t you, and she told you things of the past.”

“Yes…”

“But now it is time to tell you the real story, Arthur, for this quest may be about Merlin, it is also about you. You see, I was expecting you. No, please do not talk now,” Celise said as Arthur opened his mouth, “please hear me out. This place, this beautiful castle of Tintagel, is cursed, and has been cursed from the day you were born. People started dying, walls collapsed, all around us crops failed and the sea turned the water in our wells to salt. Only a few of us remain now, and we must do so until the curse is finally lifted.”

“And I am the one to lift that curse?” Arthur’s voice was almost inaudible now.

“In a way, yes, although it may take days, years or not at all, that, alas, is not in my hands.”

“What must I do to lift this curse?”

“That I cannot tell you, for you must listen to your heart to find that answer. Please, do not talk of this now, for I must finish my tale first. One day you will know what to do. You, Arthur Pendragon, you are a creature of magic.”

At this point Arthur could no longer restrain himself. He jumped from the chair and shouted, “What? How? I…” He felt hot and cold now, and utterly confused. “I am not made of magic!”

Celise put her slender fingers on Arthur’s forehead and slowly he calmed down. “I am not made of magic” A whisper now, saturated with incredulity as he sat down again.

“You, Arthur Pendragon, you are a creature of magic, for know that your mother, Ygraine, was barren, unable to conceive a child. She was inconsolable when she found out, and Uther could not bear to see his beloved wife slowly wasting away with grief, so he made a decision. He sent Gaius to the sorceress Nimueh, begging her to help them.”

Arthur was stunned now, every word Celise uttered felt like a punch, battering his body and his soul. Gaius, Nimueh… He wanted her to stop, he wanted to block his ears, flee Tintagel, but he had to listen, but he also wanted to know, needed to know. _I am a creature of magic._

“Not long afterwards Ygraine was with child, for Nimueh had created a life in her womb, and both Ygraine and Uther were filled with joy. A great banquet was held, and a tourney, and finally the day came when you were born, here, in this very castle. But Nimueh had not told them of the price they had to pay, for to create a life, another must be taken, and so the moment you were born, Ygraine died.”

Arthur’s face was ashen now, his mind in turmoil. He had heard all the words Celise had told him, but they did not register. Not yet. He felt cold, so terribly cold. He looked at his white hands, unable to move them. His clothes were soaked with sweat, cold and clammy _. Magic, I am a creature of magic. Magic is evil. I am evil. Magic killed my mother, and magic killed my father. I killed my mother_. He could not think straight anymore, his mind a giant maelstrom of images. He heard Celise’s voice in the distance, and somehow he understood what she was saying. Nimueh was banished from Camelot and Uther began the Great Purge, killing anything and anyone magical. I am to blame, he thought, I am to blame for this purge, I killed all those druids and warlocks and sorcerers, I have brought death and suffering to Camelot. How can I still live like this? I am no King of Camelot, I am Camelot’s bane. I am the curse that needs lifting.

“And now Ygraine’s spirit still dwells within these walls, unable to rest until the curse is lifted and you, Arthur Pendragon, are destined to achieve this. Only then will Ygraine, your mother, find rest and will Tintagel prosper once more. You will know what to do, the answer is there, in your heart, and one day you will see it, we can only hope that day is not long in coming.” She fell silent now and bowed her head. “Rest now, Arthur Pendragon King of Camelot,” she said softly and touched his forehead once more. Arthur’s eyes closed and his breathing became more regular. She smiled a sad smile, yet there was hope in her eyes. The next moment she was gone.

 

One moment Galahad was following Leon and Gwaine in the corridor, the next moment he was all alone, standing in a bare room. No furniture, no tapestries, no candles, not even a slit in the wall to let in some light. “Mordred,” he shouted, “Percival, where are you?” With all his might he tried to open the heavy door, but he found it locked. He pounded on the door, but no answer came. “Come on, open this door at once! This is not funny. LET ME OUT!” he shouted at the top of his voice, and once more gave the door a beating until his knuckles bled, but it remained firmly locked. His stomach started rumbling now, and his throat was dry. I should have eaten something, he mumbled softly to himself, even that inedible pig feed would be welcome now.

“Have you noticed that there is light in this room even though there is not one slit, not even a crack, in the walls? Remarkable, isn’t it.”

Galahad’s eyes flew open and his hand went to his sword.

“I’m terribly sorry, did I wake you?”

Sword in hand, Galahad looked around, furious at himself for not noticing someone entering the chamber. “Show yourself,” he demanded. He stood with his back to the wall now, eyes darting to and fro, but he saw no-one. “Who are you, show yourself this instant!”

“These youths of today, they never seem to have heard of the word ‘please’, let alone utter it once in a while.”

Galahad was feeling scared now, but he kept telling himself: this is just a joke Leon and Gwaine and Percival are having at my expense. They are laughing their heads off now, for sure, well, I’m not giving them the satisfaction of appearing afraid.

A creature suddenly stepped into view and Galahad gasped, almost dropping his sword. “What are you,” he whispered hoarsely, cold sweat on his brow, his throat dry as hot sand, for there stood a creature surely not from this world, a creature of magic, bluish white it was, and all over his body he had spines like a porcupine. It smiled at him, a terrible and creepy smile. Galahad tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips as he was mesmerized by the creature’s pitch-black eyes, ringed with red tissue. This no longer was a joke, this was real, or he was having a very bad nightmare.

“So you’re the one Merlin is relying on for his recovery. Any luck so far? Or are you too busy being an obnoxious prat and admiring yourself in the looking glass?.”

“Gwaine, Leon!” Galahad was shouting now as he desperately tried to open the door, “Percival!”

“Oh, they can’t hear you, you’re not really here you know. Well, in a sense you are here, but not… Forget it, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Who are you.” Galahad gripped his sword even more tightly now, its sharp point directed at the creature’s chest, “What are you.”

“Good question, I think you may call me Airy for now. That’s as good a name as any for a Spirit of the Air.”

Galahad nodded as he slowly sank to the floor, unable to stand any longer, his sword fell from his hand and it clattered loudly on the cold flagstones.

“Afraid, are we now, afraid as we’ve always been. Always afraid and hiding it behind that overbearing mask you’ve created, that impregnable wall so nobody can touch you anymore, and you’re doing everything you can to keep everyone at a distance, never helping, never caring. Oh, I know why, and you know it too, don’t you? Don’t look so startled, I simply know things. And now you’ve got to help someone. Someone you don’t even care about -do you even know his name? It’s Merlin by the way-, all you care about is you. Look at you, the high-and-mighty Galahad, look at you now: lying on the floor, crying like a newborn babe.”

Galahad said nothing, he sat slumped on the floor, afraid to meet the spirit’s penetrating gaze. He knew the spirit was right, he was hiding, he was afraid to show the world the real Galahad. And he also wanted desperately to become a Knight of Camelot, so his father Lancelot would be proud of him, even though he was long since dead. Nothing could stop him achieving that goal, and everything he did, everyone he met, it was nothing but a means to reach that coveted knighthood. He didn’t care about that boy he was supposed to save, he was just a stepping stone for the greater glory of himself.

“Are you going to say anything?”

Galahad blinked, fighting back tears.

“Then let me tell _you_ something,” the spirit continued, “before this night has passed, you will be asked to do something. Fail, and Merlin dies. Fail, and Camelot will fall. But you can only achieve this if you truly believe you’re doing the right thing, for then, and only then, will you succeed. If not… well, you know the consequences. And before I forget, Galahad, try not to cheat, don’t do things simply because you are told to do so, for I will know…”

 

Galahad didn’t know for how long he had been lying on the floor. It was pitch-dark now, and he felt cold and stiff all over. “Hello,” he shouted, but the only sound he heard was his own, echoing off the walls. He tried to stand up, get some circulation back into his legs and arms and he winched at the pain of thousands of needles being stabbed in his limbs. He felt for the door and with all his might tried to open it again, but to no avail. It remained firmly shut. Galahad started to sob now, as he finally understood he was utterly alone now. Leon, Percival, they had all abandoned him, no-one was looking for him. Were they even missing him? The more he thought, the more depressed he became. “I’m sorry, father, I’m sorry I’ve been a disappointment to you. For all my life I strove to become a Knight of Camelot, just like you, and now I’m here in this dungeon, left to rot. All I ever wanted was to be the best, the bravest, to be respected.” He sat on the floor again, knees drawn to his chin. “And how am I supposed to do this… thing, being locked up in here!” he suddenly shouted. He was looking for something to throw, and suddenly his fingers felt an oddly-shaped stone. Galahad didn’t remember it being there, but he picked it up and the stone started to glow with an inner light, growing brighter and brighter. He let it fall, afraid of burning his fingers, afraid of the magical light. The stone remained glowing brightly and the whole room had a feel of being moonlit. Galahad looked at it, afraid to touch it again, afraid it might suddenly come to life, but it just lay there, glowing with that eerie inner light.

_An gebyrt of twegan dead_

_Infindan stan, rudu gelice blod_

_Hæle ofeslæp belute wiðinnan_

“Who said that,” Galahad exclaimed, looking wildly around him, “show yourself!”

“Do you know what is means?” came the voice of the spirit.

“No, yes… I…I… don’t know!”

“Yes or no, no or yes, make up your mind, Galahad. Look at the stone.”

Galahad obediently did so, but he saw nothing.

“Don’t stare at it, LOOK at it, into it. Believe in it!”

“Just tell me what you want with me and stop playing games. I can’t take much more of this, please, stop tormenting me like this.” There came no answer. Galahad’s eyes darted to the stone, afraid of what he might see. Nothing but swirling strands of light, glowing like mother-of-pearl. Mesmerized he stared at it, unable to avert his gaze. “Do you see it now,” a voice sounded in his head, and suddenly Galahad saw words appearing: _a stone red as blood will cure the sleeping spell_. “But how…” he mumbled, “No, this stone is not red, I must find another,” but there was none to be seen. His eyes searched the walls, the floor, the ceiling, but no red stone was to be found. He sat down again, rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. He suddenly felt so tired, so worn out, so utterly helpless. “I’m sorry, Merlin, I’m so terribly sorry,” he sobbed, “I want to help, but I can’t,” and he could no longer keep his eyes open. He slid to the floor and fell asleep.

_The stone was there, that ominous white object on the black marble floor. Galahad looked at it, sword in hand. He saw flashes on its surface, burning houses, screaming people, Merlin with a face contorted in a soundless scream. He saw himself as a young boy, playing with a wooden sword, defeating his father Lancelot in a mock fight. He was laughing and screaming with pleasure as Lancelot took him in his arms and threw him in the air. He saw images of his friends and then everything changed; he saw walls erected between him and his friends and everyone he knew, he heard doors shutting, and echo after echo washed over him, until the sound became unbearable. I must prove I’m a man, a man worthy of Camelot, he heard himself say before a heavy iron door closed and he could no longer see himself in the stone. He blinked and the stone was white again, as if nothing had happened, but suddenly a drop fell on its surface, a drop red as blood. Another drop fell and another, until the stone was completely red, and still the drops fell. He saw it now, they were coming from the tip of his sword, but how could that be? He lifted the sword and felt a stinging sensation in his left hand. He looked at it and noticed he had sliced his little finger and with morbid fascination he continued to watch the slow trickle of blood coming from it. The stone pulsated now, like it was alive. Slowly he raised his hand, trying to stop the bleeding. Rudu gelice blod. Red like blood._

With a jolt he sat upright and immediately he looked at his hand. Nothing. He tried to calm himself, trying to dispel that awful dream from his mind, but it would not go away.

For a long time he sat there contemplating, looking at the stone, at his sword, at his hand. Could that be the answer? Without hesitation he sliced open his little finger and let the blood flow freely onto the stone. “For you, Merlin, I give this freely and gladly for you,” he whispered, and slowly the stone turned red.

“Wonderful, well done!” came the voice of the spirit, but Galahad didn’t care. He felt elated, proud, and he felt a strange sense of humility, something he has not felt in a very long time.

“Quests are such wondrous things, aren’t they? Everybody here seems to have one, and you have fulfilled your own quest this very day. Now, go and give this stone to Merlin, come on, don’t dally now,” and he indicated to a figure in the corner of the room, a man with an unruly mob of black hair, clad in a red tunic. Galahad looked nonplussed, surely he wasn’t there before? Merlin awoke and stared at Galahad. He looked as bewildered as Galahad. For a brief moment both men stood there, looking at each other, not quite knowing what to do. Then Galahad carefully took the stone in both hands and walked over to Merlin. “A blood-red stone to cure the sleep within,” Merlin said, as he took the stone into his own hands and he instantly crashed to the floor, eyes rolled in his head until they showed only the whites, he started foaming at the mouth and then he lay still, the stone clutched in his lifeless hands.

“Merlin!” Galahad shouted, as he looked with horror at Merlin’s ashen face, devoid of any colour,  “Merlin, wake up! Don’t die, you can’t die now, we need you, I need you!” and he cradled Merlin’s head in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably now, and shouting with a cracked voice: “Why, spirit, why did you do this to me! You gave the stone to me, you made me kill Merlin!” He touched Merlin’s ice-cold hand, and said in an almost inaudible voice: “I killed Merlin.”


	11. Brimful of sorrow and dismay…

Nobody saw the black-clad man on that dark and moonless night as he slipped without a noise through the postern gate of the castle of king Peredur. A horse was already waiting for him, its hooves were swathed with cloth, in order to ride as stealthily as possible, so they would not alarm the guards. At a safe distance from the castle he removed the cloth from the horses’ hoofs and rode with great haste to Camelot, this spy of king Arthur, and to tell the king of the many hundreds of knights and soldiers king Peredur had assembled, for he wanted nothing more than to take over the throne of Camelot. Even the farmers and day-labourers, no matter how old or how young, armed with their own pitchforks and flails, were forced to supplement king Peredur’s army; and the millers and bakers were ordered to give all their flour and bread to the king’s kitchens, and the blacksmiths were not allowed to forge anything but swords and battle-axes. “King Peredur has surely gone mad,” the citizens thought, “he cares nothing for us anymore, soon we will all die of starvation,” but they were afraid to voice their qualms, lest king Peredur would hear of it and throw them in the dungeons or perhaps even hang them.

And then, one fateful morning, not long after the spy had fled king Peredur’s castle, the whole army began their slow march towards Camelot.

 

*   *   * 

 

Around the same time an unruly mob of soldiers, labourors and rabble of all sorts left king Maleagant’s castle, armed with a great variety of weapons and sharpened farming tools. Some said Maleagant was possessed by an evil spirit, others blamed his untrustworthy counselors, for all Maleagant could talk about was conquering Camelot, his rightful place, as he claimed to all who would hear it. No one knew where this delusion so suddenly came from, and most of them really didn’t care, eager as they were for war and the prospect of rich spoils, for Camelot must surely be very rich indeed, they thought.

And so this disorganized and undisciplined kludge plodded along, yelling and cheering, to Camelot and to victory.

 

*   *   *

 

He didn’t know for how long he had sat there, cradling Merlin’s head, and feeling his pulse over and over again, but every time there was nothing, not one single heartbeat, however feeble. He was almost beside himself, the thought of him having killed Merlin was too much to bear. “I didn’t want this,” he sobbed, “I thought I was doing the right thing, all I wanted to do was to help you.” He didn’t know what to do anymore, how could he face Arthur, how could he tell he murdered his servant, his friend. He thought about running away, running and running until he could run no more; and forever living in fear, fear of being found and killed or worse, forever living with the knowledge of being a murderer and a coward. How could he face Leon and Gwaine, Percival or Mordred, they would be furious, devastated and they would probably banishing him from Camelot forever, or simply kill him where he stood. And all that time Merlin lay there, the stone clutched firmly in his cold, white hand. Galahad felt so alone now, so utterly alone and utterly desperate. A tear fell on the stone and to his amazement Galahad saw the stone turning white now, it became almost translucent. A part of his wanted desperately to pry that murderous stone from Merlin’s fingers, but he dared not, afraid he might die also.

Slowly the realization came that there was no escaping his fate. He must go to Arthur and tell him everything, he must bear the consequences of his actions. “Father, please forgive me, I have failed you,” he whispered, “I have tried to become a knight of Camelot, I have tried to live up to your expectations, and all I’ve done is kill an innocent man.” Galahad did not see the spirit standing in a corner behind him, a smile on his lips. “I’m so sorry, Merlin,” Galahad’s voice a barely audible whisper now, “I truly wanted to help, but the others were right, I’m a good-for-nothing, I’m useless.” He tried to stand up, but his legs felt so heavy. He slumped down again, unable to stay awake, and the spirit faded away, still smiling.

_There is a storm raging in my head, I can see nothing but a swirling red mist. It is so cold that it hurts. Another storm is coming, a white one, and it is colliding with the red. There are horses now, all made of mist, red and white horses, and they are galloping towards each other and clashing and dissolving. The noise is deafening, splitting my skull, suffocating me. There are all kinds of shapes now, horses, wild boars, dragons destroying towers, and all of them red and white, all doing battle and they are all shouting at me to help them, to defeat the others. I don’t know what to do anymore, I must fight it, and now I feel magic surging through my every fibre, red and white magic, powerful magic, talking to me, pleading, pulling me in every direction. I don’t want to fight, I just want to be left alone! Fireballs are exploding, spells are shouting, words are coming alive. I see Arthur, laughing, and Galahad, smirking. Galahad is all red now, I grab him and he is starting to turn white. Every second I hold him feels like burning a hole in my soul, but still I hold on. Then he lays there, sobbing, drained of all colour. There’s a stone in Galahad’s hand, a blood-red stone. Do what you must do to survive, I hear someone shouting and I pick up the stone and then I see a white blur, it’s grabbing me in its hands and I feel another battle in my head, I see evil magic now and good magic battling it out while that white thing is holding me, shouting. Fight it, it says, fight it or die and so I fight but what is it I’m fighting? I see that blood-red stone flying towards me and it shatters right in front of me, showering me with razor-sharp white shards and suddenly I find myself in a white room, at least I think it is a room, but it’s more like there’s clouds all around me, thick white clouds. Then I see him standing there, the Spirit I once met in that forgotten room in the archives, the one who gave me that scroll, the one who looks just like me. He is smiling broadly now, this spirit. The noise is gone, the silence is deafening._

“Welcome, my dear Emrys, welcome. So we do meet again! How time flies! And there has been a most wondrous event! Young Galahad actually sacrificed something in order to save you. He has played his part well. By giving his blood, and his compassion, to the stone, you were finally able to conquer that evil magic within you, and releasing all your true power at the same time. That sleeping-spell could only be eliminated with the unselfishness of another soul, and Galahad’s destiny was to be that soul.” His eyes now had a dreamy far-away look. “Destinies, young warlock, destinies are curious things and not all is clear. Arthur’s destiny is to become the greatest ruler Albion has ever known, and that destiny will be fulfilled as it is your destiny to protect Arthur even if it means your death and oh, don’t look so alarmed, you are not dead yet. I think. It is also written Arthur will die by a druid’s hand, and that hand could very well be Mordred’s, but it could be yours also, Emrys. Did Kilgharrah not tell you to kill Mordred, for he will be Arthur’s downfall? But you chose not to, didn’t you Emrys, and in doing so, are you therefore not Arthur’s murderer should Mordred be the one to kill him one day? But on the other hand, it could be someone we don’t even know, someone who isn’t even born yet. But enough of this gloomy talk, and let us turn our attention to more joyous matters, for, my dear Emrys, you have finally unlocked all that ancient magic within you and you are going to need it, for terrible events are about to happen. Be ready, young warlock, be ready… Sorry, gloomy talk again. Do you remember, of course you do, how could you forget, the first time we met, you said I looked like you, but it is a bit more than that, for I truly am you, I am the magic you unlocked…” and with these words the spirit started to fade, and wispy tendrils of a white, iridescent fog reached out to Merlin, touching him, absorbing into his very body. Suddenly Merlin felt a sharp and piercing pain in his head. He no longer could see anything, everything was white, one blinding flash of white light and then it was over.

 

“Galahad, where are you? Oh, there you are. We lost you there for a moment there. Why are you sitting alone in that room? Feeling too proud, too high-and-mighty to be seen sleeping with us?”

Galahad looked up and saw Gwaine’s face hovering above him. He opened his mouth to explain, but no sound escaped his lips. Quickly his eyes scanned the room, looking for Merlin, but he was not there anymore. And the door, it was suddenly open now. He must have been dreaming for sure. _How did I get here?_

“Look, you guys, our Galahad’s just crashed here, preferring to sleep alone on the cold floor instead of sharing a room with us. You really disgust me, Galahad,” and with these words Gwaine walked away, leaving a bewildered Galahad behind.

“Nice dreams,” Percival said, without bothering to stop or even to look at him.

“He was here, Merlin, he was here,” Galahad stammered, trying to stand up and he felt a sudden sharp pain in his little finger. With incredulity he looked at it, finding half his finger gone.

“No, Galahad, Merlin is already fast asleep, he was never here, he never left the Great Hall. We left him there just seconds ago, sleeping,” Leon answered sharply, “And don’t touch the mead again, you’re obviously hallucinating.”

“But….” Galahad tried to explain, but Leon too was gone. “What’s happening to me, I wasn’t hallucinating, I saw him, I saw Merlin, I killed him…” he said, and suddenly he remembered his maimed finger. Half of it was indeed gone, the wound already scabbing over. I did slice my finger to draw blood, he thought, but it was only a minor scratch. “Merlin,” he almost shouted, remembering Leon’s words, and he ran to the Great Hall, his finger forgotten. There, sprawled in a chair, was Merlin. With a trembling hand Galahad felt Merlin’s pulse and a great relief washed over him, there was a steady heartbeat. “You’re not dead,” he whispered.

“And why would he be dead?” Arthur said as he emerged from the shadows.

“Sire, I… I…” Galahad stammered, trembling.

With one quick motion unsheathed Arthur his sword and its sharp point touched Galahad’s throat. “Why would Merlin be dead?” Arthur asked again, his voice soft, yet ice-cold.

“Please Sire, please let me explain,” he faltered, “I only wanted to save him, it wasn’t my fault, I had a dream, I thought,… please Sire, don’t kill me.”

“Sit,” Arthur commanded, leaving his sword on Galahad’s throat. Galahad walked slowly to the chair and sat down. Only then did Arthur lower his sword. “Talk.”

And, with a lot of sobbing, faltering and stammering, did Galahad tell his story. Arthur remained silent. “Go and join the others in the sleeping quarters. We will talk about this in the morning,” he said after a while.

 

When Galahad had gone, Arthur closed the door and walked over to Merlin. His breathing was regular, and Arthur thought Merlin’s face looked calmer, more at ease. “Merlin,” he whispered, “Merlin, are you awake?”

“You just can’t let me sleep in peace, can you,” came the sleepy voice of Merlin.

“No, I just don’t want you sleeping in a chair, so you can complain the whole day tomorrow how sore your poor muscles are and can’t do any work, provided you actually have muscles.”

Merlin kept silent, a look of bewilderment on his face.

“What, are you actually, for the first time in years, at a loss for words?”

Merlin looked at Arthur and said: “I feel fine, Arthur, I actually feel fine. I actually feel awake for the first time in weeks.”

At hearing these words Arthur wanted to shout for joy, but instead he said: “That’s nice to hear, Merlin, that means you can actually start polishing my armour properly now?”

“Yes, YES,” Merlin was absolutely beaming now. “It worked! That stone did heal me, I’m sure of it!” He did not tell Arthur about his dream, about the ancient magic he now so strongly felt, about the spirit.

“So Galahad was successful,” Arthur asked thoughtfully, “he really was the key to your recovery?”

Merlin nodded, smiling broadly.

“I’d better talk to him then,” and Arthur almost ran to the sleeping quarters and shouted: “Galahad, I want to talk to you. Now!” and he turned on his heels, followed by a terrified Galahad.

“Justice at last,” mumbled a half-asleep Percival, before falling asleep again.

 

Galahad stood there with his head bowed, eyes firmly locked on the toes of his boots. His heart was beating like mad in his dry throat, the palms of his hands were slick with sweat.

“Merlin told me he feels fine now, like he’s cured. You were supposed to be the key to his recovery, and it looks like you’ve succeeded. I just wanted you to know this. Tomorrow morning I will ask Gaius’ opinion. If Merlin is indeed free of the sleeping-spell, I will honour my promise regarding a knighthood. If, however, Merlin is still under some enchantment, you will be banished from Camelot forever, quest or no quest.”

“Yes, Sire,” Galahad whispered, barely audible.

Without another word Arthur left the hall.

 

“Merlin has made a truly remarkable recovery, Sire,” said Gaius the next morning. He and Merlin already had a long talk beforehand, and Merlin had finally been able to tell the whole story to an overjoyed Gaius. “The sleeping enchantment is no longer there.”

Arthur and the knights cheered like mad at this most wonderful news.

“Galahad, come here,” Arthur commanded as he drew his sword. Galahad did so and fell on one knee before Arthur, head bowed. Arthur touched his sword on both his shoulders and solemnly said: “Arise, Sir Galahad, Knight of Camelot!”

“Thank you, Sire,” he said softly. Then he turned to the knights, who were standing there, saying nothing, nor smiling or cheering, and said: “I know I’ve been an insufferable person, and I can’t ask of you to be glad of this great honour bestowed upon me, but I know I can change, must change. Please, give me that chance, give me the chance to become a valued Knight of Camelot, a worthy son of the great Lancelot.”

Still the knights kept silent, then Gwaine said: “Very well, I am willing to give you a chance, but only because you were instrumental in healing Merlin.”

“Same here,” Percival said. Mordred and Leon merely nodded.

“That’s settled then,” Arthur said, “either you become accepted by the knights or not, and if not, there is no place for you in Camelot.”

“And remember,” Gwaine added, “earning our respect and your place among us will not be easy. For me, you’re not Lancelot’s son, far from it, you’re nothing but a stranger, and a yokel and lout to boot.” The rest nodded, thinking exactly the same.

“Thank you,” answered a now humble Galahad, determined more than ever to become a knight and do his father Lancelot proud.

 

*   *   *

 

 “This is very serious indeed,” said Gwen after the spy had told his story. He stood there in the Council Chambers, panting heavily and still dirty from the long ride. Gladly he took the beaker of cool water from Cerdic’s hands and drank it all in one go.

For a short while Gwen was silent, thinking over the implications of what she just heard. Camelot was in grave danger, and something must be done quickly. “How many men can we assemble?” she asked her trusted advisors.

“A few hundred knights at the most,” said Sir Algovale.

“And of course all the men in the kingdom who are fit to fight,” said Sir Kay, “I’m sure they are willing to defend their land and families.”

“Yes,” chimed in Sir Bors the Younger, “and how about our allies of the neighbouring kingdoms? I think they will gladly give aid, for if Camelot falls, they are sure to follow.”

The door opened and Osgar, Master of the Maps, came in. He spread a giant map made of several sheets of vellum on the table. “My Queen, Sirs, the map you requested,” and he withdrew.

“First get Doran in here. I want him to go to Tintagel as quickly as possible and get Arthur here.”

“My Queen, If I may make a suggestion,” answered Sir Kay, his gaze still firmly fixed on the map, “I don’t think that will be necessary. I think it might be better to get Arthur to meet us here,” indicting a spot on the map.

“Yes,” said Sir Bors the Younger, “good idea. Maleagant and Peredur, these two are the only ones rebelling against Camelot? As I said, they will want to go through here, and so march together to Camelot.”

“Yes, as far as we know, there are no more kings plotting against us, but that may very well change of course.”

“So, if we can get our army here,” and Sir Algovale pointed at a piece of land, surrounded by a river and marshes, “we stand a good chance of winning.”

And so it was agreed. Doran was sent to Tintagel with precise instructions, and the Knights started preparing for war. They all hoped it would be a short and victorious one. And all the while Cerdic stood there, listening.

 

 

“Mistress Macha, there was a spy amongst king Maleagant’s household, and now the knights are preparing for war already. Camelot will be deserted for sure and can easily be taken. Only the women and children are here, and those too old and feeble  to fight. I don’t know where the knights will put their camp, I could not see the map clearly, but I tried, really I tried, and a messenger has gone to get Arthur. Will you be queen of Camelot now, mistress Macha? Please don’t forget your loyal servant Cerdic.” Slowly Cerdic put the statue down, for Macha had severed the connection. He smiled, thinking he would be handsomely rewarded for all he had done.

 

Macha, in her cave, burst out in a loud and scornful laughter. Finally, she thought, finally the chance to take Camelot and to eliminate all the Pendragons! No more fooling around with nonsense like a poisoned mail shirt of a useless sleeping spell. Now she had the armies of two mighty kingdoms at her disposal, and they will crush Camelot’s army without any trouble whatsoever. Still she had a firm mental hold on both kings, they would do anything she told them to. “Do you hear, Morgana? We are about to conquer Camelot and then I will be queen!” Her laughter now sounded like a whole pack of harpies all screaming at once. “Queen at last! Free at last! Oh, your body will serve me well, everybody will think Morgana is on the throne, poor, little, evil Morgana! Did you really think I would let you go? Never, my dear Morgana, never! With your body, I can go where I please and escape this prison once and for all!” With another horrible laugh she merged with Morgana, ready to go to the battle-field and wallow in Arthur’s, and Camelot’s, utter defeat.

 

 

It was late in the afternoon when Arthur and the knights arrived at the campsite. An exhausted Doran had told Arthur everything and without delay they had rode to here, the plains near the Hill of Badon. There was a huge river and marshes, effectively defending the camp from that side, as the river could not be forded there, and the marshes were treacherous; and there were rolling meadows, dense copse and trees on all the other sides, giving the knights and soldiers plenty of room to fight and to lay in ambush. The camp was a beehive of activity; cooking fires were everywhere, filling the air with the smell of wood-smoke and roasting meat. Knights and soldiers alike were sharpening their swords and axes, mending their mail shirts and greasing the leather straps of their armour; and their squires were busy tending the horses and running errands.

Hundreds of tents and brightly-coloured pavilions were set up, dozens of pennants were fluttering in the breeze, a proud golden dragon on a field of red. In the centre stood Arthur’s pavilion, big enough to hold at least twenty men. A round table stood in the middle, strewn with maps.

“Welcome Sire,” said Sir Owain, and he held open the flap so Arthur and the knights could enter. Arthur nodded, threw off his cape and walked to the table.

“What’s the situation?” he asked, looking at the maps.

“The army of Maleagant is now here,” Owain said, indicating an area a few miles from the camp, “and Peredur is around here.”

They all looked at the map, and then Mordred said: “This land here is rather marshy, can we lure them to there somehow?”

“Good idea,” Arthur said, thinking it over, moving some wooden pieces over the map.

“We can take a small amount of soldiers to here,” Leon indicated, “and create a diversion, forcing Peredur to advance to here…” he added, and moved some other pieces on the map.

“”Leaving this open for Maleagant to take advantage of the gap, and he will, I’m sure of that, where we will have a large force hidden,” said Gwaine.

Arthur nodded, deep in thought. If they were to succeed, they must rely on the element of surprise, that much everybody understood all too well. They were outnumbered two to one at least. “Tonight, get half of the archers to this spot here. They will be well hidden until they start firing, and when Peredur wants to retreat or even advance, there will be knights on horseback here and here.”

“And Maleagant?”

If I were him, I would go to here,” said Arthur, stabbing on the map, “The trick is, get them as close to the marshes as we can.”

 

That night, under the cloak of darkness, hundreds of archers stealthily left the camp and took up their positions in the woods, hidden from prying eyes. Percival rode with a small group of soldiers to the enemy camp, making as much noise as possible and aimlessly shooting burning arrows, thus creating a diversion so a large group of Camelot’s knights could leave Arthur’s camp undetected.

The next morning horns sounded, piercing through the quiet morning air. The battle was about to begin.

 

From _The History of the Kings of Camelot_ by Geoffrey of Monmouth:

_And there was fierce fighting that day, and the air was heavy with the clanging of swords and splintering of lances and the groaning of men and horse alike._

_And there King Arthur fought wondrously; he struck down all he met in his path, and no one got away unharmed. He fought so well that none dared face up to him, for no iron or steel, no matter how strong, could withstand his blows. And on that day there fell 940 men by Arthur’s hand alone, and no one struck them down but Arthur himself. And when the enemy saw him coming, they turned in flight, for they did not dare face up to him._

_And there was Percival, swinging his sword which he held two-handed, hewing through helm and coif and splitting the enemy down to his teeth._

_And there was Gwaine, striking this way and that, with his mighty sword drawn, fighting as fiercely as he were a wild boar._

_And there was Leon, hitting the enemy so hard on the helm that he knocked off a big piece and sent it flying, and the enemy fell down in a faint._

_And there was Galahad, striking the enemy with his lance, and brought horses and riders down in a heap._

_And there was Mordred, fighting side by side with King Arthur, and his sword clove helm and mail and bone and all who saw him fled in fear._

 

“We’re gaining ground, Sire,” shouted Gwaine hoarsely, his armour splattered with blood,  some of it his own, trying to make himself heard above the terrible din of the battlefield. The grass was red and sticky from spilled blood from knights and enemy alike, the air heavy with a cloying stench; and there were flies everywhere, buzzing ceaselessly.

They saw the remnants of the armies of king Maleagant and king Peredur slowly but surely retreating, and the Knights of Camelot started to fight with renewed vigour, driving the enemy further and further into the treacherous marshes.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Mordred saw a Saxon warrior from Maleagant’s army running towards Arthur, a short but lethal sword held high above his head, ready to slay the king. Quickly Mordred turned on his heels to block that fatal blow, and in doing so his own outstretched sword sliced through Arthur’s mail shirt, gambeson and body, thus grievously wounding the king.

It was as time itself came to a standstill. Merlin saw Arthur bleeding profusely, and every drop seemed to hover in the air before slowly falling to the ground, each fallen drop sounded like thunder in Merlin’s ears. He saw Mordred, bloodied sword in hand, mouth open in a soundless scream, eyes full of disbelieve and horror and his sword fell ever so slowly from his hand.

 _Arthur shall die by a Druid’s hand._ Merlin relived his dream again, vividly and in every detail, his dream in which Arthur was killed by Mordred. He saw himself lifting Arthur’s dying body again and he felt the enormous grief he had felt in his dream over and over again.

Time crawled and Merlin saw Arthur fall, saw the death in his eyes, saw his face contorted with pain. The whole world now had stopped, birds hung motionless in the air, horses stood unmoving and still Arthur kept falling. Then it was all over.

“Nooooo…,” yelled Mordred. Merlin stood stock-still for a brief moment before he came to his senses and started running towards Arthur. Both he and Mordred knelt by the fallen king. Blood spurted from his gaping wound, his face had turned ashen, his breath came in ragged gulps. Tears streamed from Mordred’s eyes as he tried to staunch the wound and stop the bleeding.

“We must use our magic,” he whispered, but Arthur could no longer hear them, for he had fainted. Mordred cast a powerful healing spell, whispering lest Arthur should awaken and hear him. The blood started to flow more slowly and Mordred heaved a deep sigh of immense relief. Merlin too cast a spell, his eyes golden: “ _Licsar ge staðol nu_ ”, he whispered, and there was a mere trickle of blood now, the wound had almost completely closed, but Arthur had lost so much blood, too much blood; and there was no way of knowing how much damage there was to his intestines.

“We must get Arthur to his pavilion as quickly as possible,” Merlin said, “there he can be examined properly. Gaius will see to that.”

But before Mordred could answer, a loud thunderclap sounded, splitting the very air, frightening both men and horse alike.

“Hello boys,” sounded a mocking voice and Morgana appeared as from nowhere, a sardonic smile playing on her cruel lips, “having fun?”

 


	12. Epilogue: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now

Everybody stood in shock, unable to move, at Morgana’s sudden appearance from thin air. Behind her they could see the air moving, repairing itself.

“Well, boys, what do you think of my little plan? Don’t you just love it? I will finally destroy you, little brother, and take the throne of Camelot all for myself. I see you’re almost dead already. Such a pity… My heart breaks… And my dear Merlin, there is nothing you can do to prevent his death. I now have powers you can’t even begin to imagine! And as for you, poor little Mordred, you should have sided with me when you had the chance, for now it’s too late!” And with these words she hurled a spell at Arthur: _Ætynedest heaðuglemm ferhþes_. Arthur’s body involuntarily jerked and then he lay still again, and to Mordreds’s horror, the wound started to open up again. Mordred immediately tried a healing spell, but the blood kept slowly flowing.

For a split second Merlin was faced with a terrible dilemma, try to heal Arthur first, or stop Morgana and leave Arthur behind with the one person he did not trust: Mordred. Then his eyes glowed golden and with an outstretched arm he ran towards Morgana, an unearthly scream escaped his lips, face contorted in utter savagery. “ _Ástrice,_ ” he yelled hoarsely, and he could see his raw magic enveloping Morgana. She stumbled for a second, but nothing further happened. “ _Ic þé wiþdrífe_ ,” he shouted in a deep, commanding voice, but Morgana did not move.

“ _Forbearnan ácwele_ ”, and a huge fireball sped towards Merlin, who, at the last second, was able to counteract it, causing the fireball to explode in a blinding flash, scorching the grass.

Most of the soldiers and some of the knights had fled now, deadly afraid they were, and fearing for their lives and above all fearing for their souls.

Merlin felt his new-found magic surging through his every fibre, every nerve. Without thinking he cast another spell. The air around Morgana shimmered, but still she did not waver. Her eyes flashed, and Merlin flew through the air and with great force was hurled against a tree. Before Morgana could strike again, he cast another spell, causing part of Morgana for a brief moment to disappear. An idea had formed in his mind: create a rift in the fabric of time and space, and get her away from here forever, transport her to the spirit world. Instinctively he knew he could do it. He felt another hit, saw the evil magic penetrating his battered body and felt his own magic battling to survive; and in his mind spells formed.

 

Mordred had rolled up his cloak and put it under Arthur’s head. He looked at the wound. No matter what healing spell he used, the wound would not completely close. “I’ll get you for this, Morgana, I will never forgive you for this,” he said grimly, jaw clenched, and he looked at the still raging battle between Merlin and Morgana. He did not see how Arthur had opened his  eyes. Arthur tried to speak, but no sound came. He tried to understand what he was seeing, Merlin casting spells and battling Morgana, he didn’t know if it was a dream or real. No, it must be real, he thought, there is too much pain for it to be a dream. “Merlin, you are a sorcerer,” he thought, still unable to utter a sound or even move a muscle. He felt terrible waves of pain surging through his body, but he wanted to continue watching. He saw Merlin hurl a flaming ball to Morgana, but she countered it, causing some trees to burst into flames, leaving nothing but a charred and twisted trunks. “Merlin, you _are_ a sorcerer,” and slowly he felt himself drifting back into unconsciousness again.

 

Both Merlin and Morgana were showing signs of fatigue now, but neither would stop, could stop. The grass was blackened now, trees burnt or uprooted, rocks smashed into tiny fragments of stone. Merlin suffered from burns, he was bleeding from numerous wounds and some of his bones were broken, but he blocked out all his pain, all he could think of now was sending Morgana to a different plane, somewhere she could do no more harm. “ _Géosceaftgást edhwierft hinderþéostru_ ,” he yelled, giving everything he had and more. He saw the air behind Morgana shimmering and a rift opened. “ _S_ _céotan!_ ” With all his might Merlin tried to magically push Morgana into the rift, and finally, with a horrible scream Morgana disappeared, her howling becoming more and more faint. A sudden blinding flash and then the rift closed. An eerie silence descended over the battle-field, the fighting was over. The remaining warriors of both sides who had been brave enough to stay and witness this terrible magical battle, retreated, and Camelot’s knights gathered in their camp, grieving their fallen comrades, grieving their king, for they were convinced he must be dead.

 

For Mordred there was no more battle, no more fighting. There were shapes of men running around, but he did not see them anymore, they were like a dream, they were not really there, for all he could see was a dying Arthur. Somehow he found the strength to drag Arthur to his pavilion, avoiding numerous fallen men and horses, and he put him gently on the floor, almost collapsing next to him, only Gaius’ hand saved him from falling down.

“Get that tabletop,” Gaius said, “quickly, and where is Merlin?”

“Percival carried him to the knight’s tent I guess. I think. I don’t know, I saw them vaguely.”

Gaius nodded, fully understanding. Merlin must be exhausted, drained, after such a battle.

They moved the still unconscious Arthur on the wooden board, carefully lifted it up and put him on the round table. “Get water, hot if possible, and clean cloths, if there are still any left that is, and be quick about it,” he said impatient to a squire who had just walked in, involuntarily looking at the pile of bloodied cloths already laying on the floor. The boy ran, to return minutes later with a bucket of water. He took off his own tunic, saying: “This is the least dirty rag I could find”.

“Good,” Mordred said, “now find Leon and get him in here. We must speak with him.”

Gaius felt Arthur’s pulse, listened to his heart, prodded the wound and looked worried.

“Morgana managed to cast a spell, the wound will not completely heal, no matter what I try,” a desperate Mordred said.

Then there was a groan coming from Arthur’s lips: “Wha… happe… hap… Merl…”

“Don’t try to speak now, Sire, you have been grievously wounded, but you are no longer in mortal danger,” said Gaius, and he put his hand on Arthur’s chest, hoping he was right about his claim.

“We won the war, Sire,” Mordred said, “Camelot is safe,” and he saw Arthur trying to smile.

“Good,” he managed to croak, before slipping into unconsciousness again.

Not long afterwards Merlin came stumbling in. His face was ashen and covered in mud and blood, breathing was difficult and he dragged his left leg behind him.

“How’s Arthur,” he croaked, looking with fear in his eyes at the fallen king.

“He has been enchanted,” Mordred said, “Morgana was able to cast a spell, his wound will not heal.”

Merlin limped to Arthur and laid his hands on his chest. His eyes closed and his whole body swayed.

“Merlin,” Mordred said, and there was some panic in his voice, “are you alright? Can I help?”

Slowly Merlin shook his head and almost immediately fell down. “I’m fine,” he whispered, “get me some water.”

Mordred looked at Arthur, the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

“What’s happening here,” came the voice of Leon as he entered the pavilion. Without waiting for an answer he almost ran to where Arthur lay and immediately turned an accusing eye at Gaius, as if he was responsible for Arthur’s fate.

“As far as we can tell, Arthur is no longer in mortal danger,” Gaius said.

“Good.” It was at that moment that Leon finally saw Merlin.

“I’m fine,” Merlin said and tried to sound as cheerful as possible.

“What news,” asked Mordred curtly.

“A most strange thing has happened,” Leon answered, “soon after that witch Morgana disappeared, king Peredur came to us, crying. He claimed he has been under Morgana’s spell and wants to speak with Arthur. He didn’t want to fight, he said, but Morgana made him. He is in quite a sorry state, and laments the loss of his men and ours too.”

“Tell him,” said Gaius sternly, “tell him Arthur is severely wounded and cannot see anyone at this moment. As his physician I strictly forbid it!”

“Where’s Gwaine? And Percival?” Merlin asked anxiously, at the same time afraid to hear of their possible deaths.

“There’re fine. Battered, bruised and wounded, but otherwise fine. Even Galahad.”

Merlin heaved a deep sigh of relief.

“Now please leave us, I must attend to Arthur’s needs,” Gaius said and shooed Leon and a few squires out of the pavilion.

“Tell Peredur we will talk to him later. And what about Maleagant?”

“I don’t know, he seems to have run away, the coward, leaving all the dead behind, left to rot, and looting just about everything and everyone,” and Leon spat in disgust on the floor.

“Well,” Gaius said urgently to Merlin, “how is Arthur? Tell me now, don’t dally!”

“I don’t know for sure. I managed to encapsulate Morgana’s spell somehow so it can’t harm him anymore. It’s a very powerful spell, but it needs a human host to do any harm. It will fade now. I think. I hope… But there was something else I saw. That was not Morgana. It was her body, but there was someone, something, else in her mind, a very powerful being. I managed to sent her, them, back to where they came from, I could see it in her mind. It’s not on this plane. We’re safe for a while, I did something to her magic, but I don’t know what exactly, but she’ll be back for sure. They’ll be back. I don’t know, I think I did something… I… I… I don’t know Gaius, it all so confusing. There are two Merlins in my head, at least that’s how it feels. I gave Arthur a mild sleeping-spell, so his body can heal. Arthur, did Arthur see me using magic?” and a sudden fear crept in his voice, eyes darting to and fro. Mordred shook his head. But every knight and citizen on the battle-field did, he thought, we must urge them to keep silent somehow. “Arthur must never know. And all we can do for Arthur now is let him rest. He must let his body cure itself now. And I’m so very tired.” With these words Merlin crashed on a chair and instantly fell in a troubled sleep.

 

 *   *   *

 

“Nooooo…” Macha and Morgana screamed in one voice. They felt Morgana’s body almost torn asunder from the enormous forces of magic as she was thrown back into Macha’s realm. Morgana landed with a dull thud on the ground, her head hitting a rock, and she lay there, motionless. The force had ripped Macha’s essence from Morgana’s body, and she desperately tried to find her own body again. Her face was almost unrecognizable with primal anger, and she let her magic run wild. Trees were uprooted and burned, rocks blasted to smithereens. Then she heard a thundering voice: “You idiot, you birdbrain, I gave you the simple task of eliminating the Pendragon dynasty, one simple task and you bungled it! I gave you that powerful sleeping spell, I made sure you would use Morgana and what did you do? Made a mess of things! And what’s worse, that upstart of a Merlin is by now the most powerful warlock in Camelot instead of a dead one!”

“Then give me something better or do it yourself next time!” Macha yelled, completely besides herself with anger now.

“How dare you!” roared the voice of Caer Ibormeith, the ancient and forgotten god of sleep and dreams, for it was he who had set everything in motion, it was he who held a deep grudge against Camelot, and Macha was knocked down. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her body convulsed and then she lay still.

 

*   *   *

 

It was a sorry sight at the Knight’s tent that day. Some of the surviving soldiers of king Peredur were still gathered there, wounded and downtrodden, lamenting their fallen brothers in arms. The rest had retreated to their own camp, taking their fallen comrades with them. Only now they fully realized this whole battle had been so unnecessary, so futile, but they had to follow their king in battle, follow a king acting under the influence of evil magic. The Knights of Camelot brought them what little food they could spare and they waited, waited for their king Peredur who was inside the tent, talking and pleading; but it was the knights who did all the talking, and Pederur was merely listening.

“This has been a terrible day,” Leon said, “a terrible day for all our peoples. We all have lost so much. Friends and family gone, knights and citizens gone, decimated, and all because of one evil witch. She is gone for now, but there is no telling when she will return, and when she does, we must be ready. We must be strong and vigilant. I have heard king Arthur talk of uniting all our kingdoms one day, and on behalf of King Arthur and the Knights of Camelot, I offer you my hand in friendship.”

“Thank you, Sir Leon, there is gladness in my heart upon hearing these words. I will gladly take your hand, Sir Leon, and let our kingdoms henceforth be both allies and friends.”

Both men clasped each other’s fore-arms. Gwaine filled goblets with a generous amount of mead. “To Camelot and to our united kingdoms,” he said, and they all drank to that.

“As soon as king Arthur has recovered from his wounds, I will come in peace to Camelot to seal our friendship once more.” The council was over, Peredur stood up and left the tent, recounting the agreement to his soldiers, and they began their cheerless journey home.

 

 

For days now Arthur had been tormented with a very high fever. Every day and much of the night Gwen sat by his bed, keeping his forehead cool, moistening his lips, watching him struggle, tossing and turning, clinging to life. Gaius had had Arthur’s bed moved near the window, so he might hear the sounds of the courtyard, the sounds of knights training, in the hope that Arthur would hear it and wake up.

Every day Percival, Gwaine, Leon and Mordred came to see Arthur, telling him how the training went, boasting of their skills. Sometimes even Galahad came with them, but he invariably kept silent.

And every day Gaius came, changing the bandages and cleaning the wound. Merlin and Mordred had done all they could by using their magic, and now there was nothing left but wait for the fever to break. All Merlin could do was keep Arthur company, he even slept in Arthur’s chambers, “in case Arthur woke up”, he claimed. He never spoke of the possibility that Arthur might die.

“The wound is healing nicely,” Gaius said one day, smelling the wound, and trying to sound as optimistic as possible, “there is no more sign of rotting flesh, and we should be grateful for that.” He had put quite a number of  maggots on Arthur’s wound these last few days, for the wound had become infested, and the maggots would eat away all the putrid and rotting flesh, thus cleaning the wound.

An exhausted Gwen vaguely smiled as she wiped the sweat from Arthur’s brow, smoothing his damp hair, watching Arthur fighting a battle, fighting to stay alive. She had never felt so helpless in her life.

Then, one sunny afternoon, the fever finally broke.

 

 

It did not take long for Arthur to recover, the wound was completely closed now, and he had started training with his sword again. Careful at first, but every day he got better and faster. Soon the day would come when he would be his old self again, and his strength and agility would be back completely.

“I saw what you did back there,” Arthur casually said one day, when he and Merlin were alone in his chambers. “at the Hill of Badon, your fight with Morgana, using magic” and his eyes bored into Merlin’s, mouth set in a thin and grim line.

Merlin paled, and it felt as if his legs buckled under him, unable to hold his weight anymore, the jug he was holding crashed to the floor. This is not happening, he thought, Arthur doesn’t know anything. Nobody had told Arthur anything, or did they? He wanted to say something, but all he managed was a twitching of his lips, and a feeble gesture with his hand.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a sorcerer, Merlin,” Arthur said, his voice deceptively calm. “WHY?” he yelled and threw a goblet at Merlin’s head, narrowly missing him. “Why Merlin, why did you lie to me all those years. I thought we were friends, but no, you had to deceive me, lie to me, time after time, playing the o-so-innocent servant. You’ve betrayed me Merlin. Why Merlin, why?” His eyes were blazing, his whole body trembled with pent-up anger and confusion. Merlin just stood there, fidgeting, not knowing how to react. “Talk to me Merlin,” Arthur whispered angrily, “talk to me or get out and never come back!”

“You know as well as I do Uther would have had me killed,” a now emotional Merlin said, finally finding his voice, “How could I have told you, even if I wanted to? I was given a destiny, I was to protect you and do you know how many times I saved your life? And yes, by using magic! So no, Arthur, I had to keep my secret, for if I died you would soon follow and there would be no more Camelot.”

“So you’re the worst possible protector. I nearly died, remember? I nearly died! And you should have told me, your secret would have been safe with me.”

“Really? No Arthur, that’s not true and you know it. All your life you were taught to hate magic and when you were convinced Uther had died of evil magic, you loathed sorcery even more. Would you have let me live if you knew I was a sorcerer? Magic must be banned at all costs, you said. At all costs!”

Both men stood there, the air heavy with tension and unspoken words, almost visibly quivering with the release of these hidden secrets and whirling emotions.

“I had to keep quiet, Arthur, for your sake and mine.”

Silence fell and nothing could be heard but the labored breathing of two tormented and confused souls.

“My mother died by evil magic, my father died by evil magic. So can you blame me? Can you blame me for denouncing magic after that? Can you? Can you?”

Merlin shook his head and whispered almost inaudibly: “No”.

Arthur had started pacing now, hands clasped over his ears, as if he refused to listen to Merlin anymore. Merlin still did not move, only his eyes moved, following Arthur.

“Who knew you had magic?”

For a moment Merlin kept silent, the last thing he wanted was to incriminate others.

“Who, Merlin.” Arthur’s voice sounded like the sharpest of swords, cutting through Merlin’s last shreds of resistance.

“Gaius,” he whispered, “and Mordred. And Lancelot too. And Leon I think, and perhaps Gwaine.”

“So just about everybody, except me. How great…” Arthur’s voice was now cold as steel.

“Where did you learn it? Who did teach you?” Arthur said after an uncomfortable silence.

“No, I was born with it.”

“Born with it?”

“Yes Arthur, I have been a sorcerer from birth. And do you have any idea what it is to constantly live in fear? Fear of being discovered? Fear of getting killed? Trying to save your life without anyone noticing? Every time Uther executed a sorcerer, I said to myself,  I could be the next one. I have such a great gift, Arthur, I can do so much, I can help so many people, and all I can do is stand idle and watch, unable to do anything. There were times when I wished I were dead!”

Arthur stopped pacing, and, looking at the wall instead of Merlin, he said: “I need time to think, Merlin, please go. Too many things are happening now. Tell the guards I will not see anyone, not even Gwen. We will talk later.”

And with a heavy heart Merlin left Arthur’s chambers, afraid of what his future might hold. His life was now in Arthur’s hands.

 

Two days later Arthur summoned Merlin to his chambers. For Merlin it had been two torturous days, not knowing what Arthur would decide, hardly eating, hardly sleeping, and now his heart sank completely. His face was white as a sheet, and he could not stop trembling.

“Have faith,” Gaius said, embracing him, patting him encouragingly on his back, “Arthur will do the right thing.”

But what if Arthur thinks killing me is the right thing, Merlin thought, and slowly he walked to Arthur’s chambers, entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him. Arthur stood there, facing the window. He did not turn around, nor did he speak for what seemed like ages. Finally he said: “Listen carefully, Merlin.”

And in the courtyard he heard a herald proclaim:

“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! Arthur King of Camelot has issued the following statement and wants it known throughout the whole Kingdom of Camelot!

“Firstly, let it be known that Arthur King of Camelot has decreed that magic is no longer forbidden, provided said magic is used for good intentions and good intentions only;

“Secondly, let it be known that Arthur King of Camelot has decreed that druids are no longer outlawed and are henceforth free to walk and live in the Kingdom of Camelot without fear of persecution;

“Thirdly, let it be known that Arthur King of Camelot has decreed that the use of evil magic within the Kingdom of Camelot is still, and always will be, forbidden and practitioners of aforementioned evil magic will be immediately put to death.

“Thus Arthur King of Camelot has spoken.

“Long live the King!”

 

“Soon the whole kingdom will hear this,” Arthur said, still not turning around. Merlin kept quiet, he was desperately trying to understand what he had just heard, still trying to grasp its meaning. Magic no longer forbidden?

“Last night I had a vision,” Arthur continued, “I saw Ygraine, telling me the curse on Tintagel was lifted, now that I had decided to lift the ban on magic. My mother told me she was finally at peace now. Then I knew I had made the right decision. Don’t think I embrace magic now, I don’t. Don’t imagine I am rejoicing, I’m not, far from it. For the moment I’m willing to tolerate magic and that’s all.”

And all that time Merlin stood there, fidgeting. Suddenly Arthur turned around, eyes cold as steel, and with voice equally cold said: “Come here, Merlin.”

“But Sire, I…”

“NOW, Merlin!”

Merlin failed to notice the smile Arthur was trying to hide, nor the laughter in his eyes. His feet felt like lead, as he walked over to Arthur. Then Arthur embraced him and they stood there, both unable to utter another word, two souls with far too much emotions to handle all at once.

“Dollophead,” Merlin whispered at last.

“Jug ears,” Arthur answered.

 

**Finis**

 

 

_Arturus, Rex quondam Rexque futurum_


	13. Glossary: the spells explained

The spells used in _Merlin_ are written in Anglo-Saxon. For this story I’ve taken some of the spells directly from the series, but most of them I had to write myself.

The letters þ and ð are pronounced like the "th" in, for instance, "that". 

 

 _Oferswing_ : to magically push someone away

 

 _Tospringe_ : to open, to spring open a lock

 

 _Forbearnan_ : to burst into flames

 

 _Slæp_ : sleep

 

 _Ic biddan becumen nu worde_ : I ask you to become words now

 

 _Ic ascian that thu awæcest_ : I demand that you awake

 

 _An gebyrd fram twegan dead_ : one born from twice dead

 _Infindan stan, rudu gelice blod_ : must find a stone, red like blood

 _Hæle ofslæp belute wiðinnan_ : to cure the sleep that lies hidden within

 

 _Byrne forgyrden breost_ : Mail shirt that encircles your chest

 _Fram heafod to fot_ : from head to toe

 _Ic þu abreotan_ : I want to destroy you

 _Wesan nu dead_ : be dead now

 

 _Licsar ge staðol nu_ : Let this wound be fixed now

 

 _Ætynedest heaðuglemm ferhþes_ : Let this battle-wound be open forever

 

 _Ástrice_ : to hurl a blast of magical energy

 

 _Ic þé wiþdrífe_ : I will drive you off

 

 _Forbearnan ácwele_ : destroy by setting fire to it

 

 _Géosceaftgást edhwierft hinderþéostru_ : Doomed spirit, return to the place of nether darkness

 

 _Scéotan_ : to push away


End file.
